


The Waves Beyond Moominvalley

by clefairytea



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Depression, Families of Choice, Gen, I don't know what Snufkin's biology OR gender is but he isn't cis., M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Pining, Post-Book 9: Sent i november | Moominvalley in November, Roadtrip, Snufkin hangs out with his Mum: the fanfic., Trans Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 64,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26377303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clefairytea/pseuds/clefairytea
Summary: Tuffe found something that always made them feel better. Buried like a dear secret, they kept a small stack of postcards, each with a little note and a sketch. Leaning to catch the swinging paraffin light above, they read the one on top of the pile.It began in a cheerful looping hand, the name TUFFE in big letters, as though it was a word the author took great joy in writing. At the bottom was a small drawing of a hatted mumrik in yellow, smiling and holding a flower as big as him. Originally, it had been packaged with a pressed daisy, but in the theatre, even Tuffe found it easy to lose Snufkin’s little gifts.Tuffe carefully counted the postcards. One, two, three, four, five. They arrived in November, every year since they first began their life in the theatre.Every year, that is, until the last.--A little Woody runs away from the theatre, looking for someone who was kind to them years ago.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Mymlan | The Mymble & Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 59
Kudos: 107





	1. The Catfish

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I'm back with more Moomin fanfic! I cannot and will not stop. This fic is already finished! It's about 65k long, give or take, and ten chapters. It's a bit of a weird one, but I hope you will play with me in this space anyway.
> 
> First of all, Tuffe isn't an OC, they're [from an untranslated Lars Jansson comic strip](https://hurry-up-snufkin.tumblr.com/tagged/tuffe). Although functionally, all I've done is take the name, since little Tuffe has basically the same design as one of the Woodies. I'm 99.9% working from the novel canons here. I've plucked one little thing from Moominvalley that I just liked a lot, and Tuffe's name from the comics, but other than that we're all bookverse here.
> 
> Whole fic warnings for discussions/depictions of depression, alcohol use & drunkenness (including in minors), sexual implications (the Mymble's a major character), some minor misgendering (Snufkin is mostly ambivalent to it), and a lot of cameos and headcanons. It was fun to write, so I hope it's at least fun to read!
> 
> Also thank you to Keat, Adele, and Lance for talking about this fic with me!! And generally being complete sweethearts in this fandom.

Tuffe was not meant for the spotlight.

That was how Miss Emma put it – which was gentler than she put many things.

You see, Tuffe had 23 brothers and sisters, all of whom were bigger than them. While they were not the youngest, they were certainly the littlest. They had been the smallest their first summer in the Park Keeper’s sandbox, where all of them learned to speak and shuffle around and watch their keeper with large, uncertain eyes. 

Despite steady promises of growth spurts, they were the smallest even now.

Miss Emma, barely looking up from her clipboard, had once said their little size was of great advantage. After all, Tuffe could scamper across the stage and move set pieces and props, barely anyone noticed. They could squeeze easily under the stage or into the rafters above, pulling pulleys or adjusting lights, or doing any of the billion things a good stage-play needed to ascend from mere entertainment to _theay-turr._

However, Tuffe was so very small that they had no presence on stage. They could study carefully and learn all their lines, down to the very last syllable, and recite them word-for-word even with the hot lights glaring down on them. The problem was their voice was just as tiny as the rest of them. Even if they spoke beautifully and acted wonderfully, the audience would just stare and mumble, wondering why they had been left to look at an empty stage for so long.

It was rotten, being so small as to be practically invisible.

And thus, for their newest production, Miss Emma decided that there was no use in giving Tuffe a speaking role. They would do wonderfully, she said, working as a stagehand, and there was no shame in that. After all, before she had become the _director_ , she was a stagehand herself.

The other Woodies agreed.

“It’s for the best!” said their eldest brother, Rulfe, slapping them on the back. “You never like being up there with everyone looking at you anyway!”

Rulfe had the most spectacular growth spurt of all of them. Not only that, but while the other woodies had sprouted only little flowers or ferns, Rulfe had grown two splendid branches from his head, like the antlers of a stag. He dressed them in little lights and silver rings and could be frequently caught admiring his own portrait in the playbills they sent out.

“I don’t dislike being looked at,” said Tuffe, but Rulfe did not hear a word. He had decided what Tuffe liked and disliked and there was no talking him out of it.

Miss Emma, however, was not so bull-headed. So Tuffe followed her and, when there was a good moment for it, tugged carefully on the hem of her dress. She looked down, surprised as everyone was when they finally noticed them.

“Can’t I have a small role?” asked Tuffe shyly.

“Oh, very well,” sighed Emma. “The play calls for a baby in a crib. It will be more realistic than having a doll.”

So Tuffe was cast as the whimpering baby in the crib. They laid on their back in the little rocking crib, while Rulfe stormed about as the man of the house, and one of their sisters rocked them back and forth, cooing. Their only lines were ‘Goo goo ga ga’ and ‘Pbtttth’. And even then Emma demanded they better project their voice.

As soon as rehearsals ended, Tuffe scampered away, fur on end from embarrassment Tuffe returned to the kitchen drawer they called their room. It was a good size for a little woodie, but some of the others had long ago graduated to dressing rooms, the kind with a real bed instead of straw, and returning to it always made Tuffe feel silly and babyish.

Snuffling around in their straw, Tuffe found something that always made them feel better. Buried like a dear secret, they kept a small stack of postcards, each with a little note and a sketch. Leaning to catch the swinging paraffin light above, they read the one on top of the pile.

It began in a cheerful looping hand, the name TUFFE in big letters, as though it was a word the author took great joy in writing. It continued, each word a bit smaller than the last, as though the writer hadn’t quite considered how best to use the space:

_TUFFE_

_A very splendid birthday to you, my dear! It is a day all your own, and how wonderful that is. Unfortunately, many people have strong ideas on how such days should be spent. I recommend you ignore such talk and spend it in whatever way is perfect for you, whether this is in a crowded dance-hall or alone among the trees._

_Keep your tail above water, and make sure you are eating more than just beans. I hope the theatre drifts past me again one day._

_Snufkin_

Below was a small drawing, of a hatted mumrik in yellow, smiling and holding a flower as big as him. Originally, it had been packaged with a pressed daisy, but in the theatre, even Tuffe found it easy to lose Snufkin’s little gifts.

As was their habit, Tuffe carefully counted the postcards. One, two, three, four, five. They arrived in November, every year since they first began their life in the theatre.

Every year, that is, until the last. November came and went, and the cold winter had truly settled around them, and no birthday letter had arrived. Tuffe had tried to ask the others about it, but nobody seemed worried. None of the rest seemed to mind about Snufkin anymore. As though he was just a funny character in one of their plays.

And November had come and gone again, and there was yet again no letter.

Tuffe pressed their paw to the little drawing of Snufkin. Closing their eyes, they remembered the smell of coffee and tobacco in his coat, the roughness of his voice as he told them to hold on, that everything would be alright, and how easy Tuffe had found that to believe.

It is funny, what can make a person stand up and decide “Right, that’s it”, and then change their entire lives. Perhaps the sea beneath the theatre shifted course, or a little fish nudged below the stage floor, and that nudge was all that needed to happen.

Whatever the cause, at that moment Tuffe became very certain that Snufkin would not forget to write a birthday letter unless there was something terribly wrong.

“Something must be done,” said Tuffe, so loudly that they made themselves jump. They looked about and continued much more quietly. “Someone must do something.”

So, careful not to tumble, Tuffe tucked their postcards into the single pocket of their onesie and clambered out of their drawer. They took a few more items from the kitchen – two large wooden spoons, a can of butter beans, and a little jar of black pepper. All of that they tied up in a handkerchief, folded just as Snufkin had taught them a long time ago.

They returned to the stage. The curtain had fallen for the night, but all the set pieces had been left out for tomorrow’s rehearsals. The curtain billowed in the winter wind, making a low, undulating noise like a snarl, and Tuffe thought about fleeing and burying deep into their lovely drawer.

Drawing themselves up big, they growled back at the curtain and then crept to the centre of the stage. The rocking cradle trembled as though it had been waiting for them. They pushed the cradle through the curtains, onto the very lip of the stage, where the grey winter water teethed at the side of the theatre.

“It is best to do scary things on the count of three,” said Tuffe, bracing themselves carefully against the side of the crib. “One, two –“

The theatre rocked and the crib went into the water and Tuffe with it. They landed on their face, legs and tail in the air, the crib bobbing on the surface of the water. After a terrifying moment, they managed to get themselves upright. They grabbed their tied-up handkerchief from the water. They pulled the wooden spoons out, dripping with salt water. With great solemnity, they took a spoon in each paw and rested the scoops on the surface of the water.

“Heave-ho,” said Tuffe, and began to row.

****

Tuffe felt enormously tired after their first day and night at sea but in a good way. It was the sort of tiredness one imagined boasting about later. They imagined their brothers and sisters, who had went from the sandpit to Snufkin’s lap to the theatre, sat cross-legged before them. And Tuffe, brightly lit and speaking clearly on-stage, would tell them all of their exhausting journey, the ache of their elbows as they beat against the sea, leaning from the edge of the prow, looking for land in the distance. The other Woodies would hold their breath and gasp and lean forward, and would say things like “How frightening that must have been!” and “How brave you are!”.

Yes, Tuffe thought, scooping a pawful of peppery beans into their mouth. That is how it will go. Assuming they ever make their way back to the theatre at all – perhaps after they find Snufkin, the two of them will stay together.

The question was, of course. How to find Snufkin at all.

Tuffe assumed there would be a pull, after they left the theatre and went to sea. They had imagined they would simply _know_ where Snufkin was and orient towards him like a compass swinging north. Of course, even after a full day’s rowing and admiring the vast waters, they had felt nothing of the sort.

Tuffe swallowed their beans and stood unsteadily in the crib. It wobbled, water sloshing in through the slats, soaking through the patterned blanket and little straw pillow. They wished they had a spyglass, but there was nothing like that in the theatre kitchen, and the one they used for props was simply an empty tube with clear plastic for a lens.

The morning sea gave no clues at all.

There was nothing for it, they would have to ask. Reaching into their tin, they plucked out the last bean from the bottom of the can carefully between their claws and tossed it onto the surface of the water. It bobbed there for a moment, looking a bit small and silly in the vastness of the sea, and making Tuffe feel quite the same.

And then the water began to ripple, and Tuffe saw a shadow growing larger under the surface. It stayed there for a moment, and then a pair of silver lips crested the water, swallowing the bean in one go.

The fish sneezed, the whiskers on its face swinging violently.

“What is this!” demanded the fish.

“I added pepper,” said Tuffe, crouching timidly behind the edge of the cot. The fish did not look impressed at that, so Tuffe quietly added:

“For taste.”

“For taste indeed!” said the fish. “You didn’t even attach a hook to it! Not that I wanted there to be a hook, but that makes you quite a shoddy angler. You’ll never catch a catfish like that.”

With that, the Catfish looked as though she was about to turn tail and dive right down onto the depths, but Tuffe reached out desperately, touching the pads of their paws against the Catfish’s fins.

“No, please wait!” they cried. “I wasn’t trying to catch you.”

The Catfish huffed at that.

“Well why not?” she demanded. “A catfish is a perfectly delicious meal.”

Tuffe was beginning to think this Catfish was the kind of person who took offence to everything one said, no matter how one said it. Still, there was not another creature in sight, and Tuffe did not want to waste another of their precious beans to try and call another.

“I’ve eaten already,” said Tuffe, because that was the most neutral thing they could think of to say. “Please, I just wanted to ask a question.”

The Catfish remained at the surface of the water, whiskers twitching. Tuffe took this as a sign to continue.

“I am looking for someone,” they continued. “Someone very important. And famous. You probably have heard of them.”

“I mind my own business,” said the Catfish with great dignity. “I don’t know anything about _celebrities_.”

“He’s not a celebrity. He’s important in a different way,” replied Tuffe, patience beginning to wear thin. “His name is Snufkin. He is –“

Tuffe thought for a second, the mental image of Snufkin swimming in their mind’s eye. The first thing that leapt to mind was the doodle from the postcard. Carefully, Tuffe took out the postcard and leaned over to show it to the catfish.

“He looks like this,” they said. “With red hair and a pointed nose, dressed in green. And he knows wonderful stories and is never truly angry with you, even if he pretends to be.”

“Is he so tiny?” said the Catfish, looking at the picture dubiously. “I doubt anyone so tiny could be so grand.”

“No,” said Tuffe firmly. “He is very tall.”

At least, that is what little Tuffe remembered.

“Hm,” said the Catfish. “Wait a moment. I will consult my brethren.”

Tuffe wasn’t sure what brethren was but thought that sounded promising. So, they nodded and sat very quietly and patiently while the Catfish disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

After a long while, the Catfish resurfaced.

“Alright then, I don’t know anything about a fellow called Snufkin,” she said. “But there’s been sightings of a chap like that on the shore.”

“Which way?” asked Tuffe

The Catfish stared, black eyes unreadable.

“Hmph. As if you will manage the journey by yourself with those silly spoons!” she said. “Throw a line and I will tow you there.”

Tuffe blinked, unable to trust such a kind offer.

“Why?” asked Tuffe.

“You just seem so pathetic I’d feel guilty leaving you,” she snapped. “Now do you have a fishing line or not?”

Tuffe shook their head. They hadn’t thought to bring a line – they had never fished before. The other Woodies always got fishing duty first. The most they had ever been told to do was sort everyone else’s lures neatly.

“Oh by the great black sea,” grumbled the Catfish, and swam a little closer to the cradle until she nudged her nose against it, and then lifted one of her long, thin whiskers towards Tuffe. “Then I shall allow you to hold onto my whiskers. Keep hold tightly but gently. I shan’t forgive you if you pull, and if you slip off I will not come back for you.”

It was a funny sort, Tuffe thought, who could be rude at the same time as being kind. Whispering gratitude, they gently took hold of the Catfish’s whiskers, one in each paw, slippery and damp against their bare fur.

“Alright, are you ready?” asked the Catfish. Before Tuffe could answer, the Catfish shot off, her tail flapping so hard white foam frothed in lines behind her. Tuffe squeaked, the cradle almost capsizing over them, only staying upright when they braced their feet hard against the side of the cradle, pulling back tightly on the Catfish’s whiskers. Doing so, they could manage to stand, pulling along over the surface of the water, water spraying against their face and soaking their white hair.

The shiny black back of the Catfish dipped and rose through the water, taking Tuffe along a long, curving path through the sea. Through the spray and the mist, they began to see something on the horizon – a tower on a rocky shore, with a top storey made of glass that glowed almost like gold even in the dim winter sun. Tuffe’s heart went to their throat – that certainly seemed like somewhere Snufkin would live! Perhaps he had been absent the past two years because he was settling into a new home, and he would write to Tuffe only when he had finished furnishing their bedroom.

The Catfish finally came to a stop, at a little dock made of wood the colour of ripe peaches.

“I’ll be grateful if you let go of my whiskers! You did pull, you know!” she said. Tuffe felt quite shy at this and gave the Catfish’s whiskers an apologetic kiss, which only made her snap them away faster.

“Really now! Theatre types!” she said, looking as embarrassed as a catfish could. “You shouldn’t be so familiar!”

Tuffe dipped their head, looking away as they struggled onto the dock, leaning down to pull the cradle and all the sodden items within up with them. Perhaps Snufkin could make a nice bed from it, even as wet and worn as it was. They gave the Catfish a bow – and a very nice one at that, from all the practice onstage – but she merely harrumphed, her whiskers rippling.

“Well!” she said. “Don’t get yourself so silly and lost next time. And eat something other than those awful beans.”

With that, the Catfish turned away and dove back under the surface of the water. Tuffe watched until her shadow disappeared, and then turned to look at the wonderful golden lighthouse. There was a path of cobbled stones leading up the path, to the gardens, and then finally to the lighthouse door. What a splendid way to find Snufkin again, they thought.

Dragging the cradle behind them with their tail, Tuffe followed the path, certain to only step on the stones and not on the little flowers poking between the stones. How wonderful to find somewhere flowers bloomed, even in winter! Flowers were so rare in the theatre – travelling at sea, Miss Emma always thought it was more practical to keep plastic flowers for set pieces. Of course, the great stars of the stage sometimes had flowers from fans sent to their dressing room, but Tuffe had never been sent as much as a single rose.

They walked up the path and through a little red gate, left open in a metal fence, painted a brilliant shade of blue. The garden was stunning – flowers with striped stems, higher than Tuffe was tall. At the tip were buds, in many different colours, all equally bright, the petals pressed tight closed, as though waiting for something but ready to burst. Tuffe felt much the same.

They jumped happily from one stone to the next, tail swinging, wishing they knew how to whistle or sing or even hum, but content just for the joyful music in their head.

They turned a corner, and saw a man with his back to Tuffe, speaking gently to the flowers as he watered them from a yellow tin. Under the man’s rumpled hat, was a braid of red hair, falling to his waist.

Tuffe couldn’t contain themselves any longer - they skipped forward and grabbed onto the man’s leg, nuzzling into their trouser leg.

“’Nufkin,” they muttered, too softly for anyone to hear, but the man looked down.

Tuffe looked up and froze, stumbling back.

“Well hello there,” said the astonished stranger. “And who might you be?”

****

Snufkin had walked further into the wild country than he had in many, many years. It was cold, as winter was, but not bitter, and just his old coat and his scarf were quite enough off keep off the chill. Even the snow was lacklustre, falling in pale sprinkles and not settled on the ground. At some point, after he set off from that empty Moominhouse, Snufkin decided that he would not settle down for more than a night unless the snow did.

So far, he only stopped to sleep, to eat, to wash and mend the few things he owned. If there was no eating or sleeping or mending or washing to be done, he walked. If strangers asked him where he was going, he would tell them truthfully that he was heading nowhere in particular. If they asked for anything else, he would look down and walk on.

It would do no good, he thought, to get pulled into conversation. Everyone in the world was moving, moving, moving, and someone who was there one day would not be there the next. Once they got what they needed from you, they would be off.

Snufkin was certain he no longer had anything anyone needed.

So Snufkin became absorbed, quite utterly, into his solitude that winter. He walked until he reached a beach he had never seen before. It was not a pretty beach – it was all bleak stone and murky pools and jagged rocks that tried their best to cut through the soles of your well-worn boots. The stone and the water were as grey as each other, so much so that only the white foam of the waves hitting the shore drew a line between them.

Snufkin neither liked nor disliked it. That said, he respected that it clearly felt no need to be a comfortable place to rest. Nobody would lay down a towel here to lounge. There would be no games or burying of ant-lions. And no mother in her right mind would try to lay out a picnic here.

Well, perhaps one. But Snufkin had resolved to forget all about that.

Behind him, the sun was beginning to set, sliding below the forests and mountains he had walked through and already forgotten entirely.

The night was young, yes, but Snufkin was much too tired to try and pry anything from it. Besides, it was a perfect night for the Groke to be abroad.

With the clear mind that only comes from years of practice, Snufkin began to set up his tent. He was hanging the lantern outside – because in recent years he’d taken a liking to be able to see the fire through the canvas – when a low moaning rumbled across the ocean, along with a crackling of ice setting into place.

The Groke was out. Swallowing, Snufkin looked over his shoulder – just enough one would barely notice – and saw her. A great creature of ice and cold stone, walking atop the waves, the grey sea turning black and solid beneath her great feet. She looked different, Snufkin thought then, although he couldn’t say how.

He looked, but the Groke wasn’t looking at him, even with the bright lantern in his paw. She just continued her solitary journey, hands outstretched, low moan burbling in the back of her throat, yellow eyes bright as the moon above.

The Groke didn’t seem to see him.

Tucking his coat tight around himself, Snufkin blew out the lantern and crawled into the tent, curling up on himself as tightly as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for fun, here are the full chapter names! I'd be interested in what you guess they're going to be about by name.
> 
> 1\. The Catfish  
> 2\. The Tulips  
> 3\. The Skerry  
> 4\. The Grasshoppers  
> 5\. The Koi  
> 6\. The Turtles  
> 7\. The Zinnia  
> 8\. The Woods  
> 9\. The Rain  
> 10\. Spring


	2. The Tulips

The red-haired man looked surprised, but smiled kindly, even as Tuffe began backing away, thinking that they should run, go find the Catfish and ask her to try again. Aside from the hair and rumpled hat, this man didn’t look _anything_ like Snufkin. He was too old for one. And, come to think of it, his face was _too_ kind. Insipid, even, Tuffe decided, feeling less friendly by the second.

“Are you lost?” asked the red-haired man, crouching. “Rose’s thorns, you’re _soaked_.”

Tuffe said nothing, dropping to all fours and backing away, eyes wide and fur on end.

“Now, now,” said the man, quite shocked. “There’s no need for that! There’s no shame in being shipwrecked! That’s what I’m here for. People wash up on the shore and I give them sea-pudding and send them on their way.”

Tuffe did not much like the sound of sea-pudding. After all, they only liked to eat beans.

Quite suddenly, the little white door to the tower opened, and out stepped the prettiest woman Tuffe had ever seen. She was very tall and long, with great dark eyes and sky-blue hair that fell to her feet, with white streaks in it that looked like clouds. Tuffe saw many pretty ladies, working in the theatre, but they were quite certain none of their leading ladies were as pretty as this new stranger.

“Another little piece of flotsam?” asked the lady, lifting her skirts to descend the wooden steps into the garden.

“I’m afraid so,” said the man. “But they don’t seem to like me!”

“Now there’s no need for that,” said the lady. “My husband gets a little dirty when he’s tending to our little ones, but he’s very likeable. My name is Tulippa.”

“Tuffe,” said Tuffe, but it was no use. They had turned small again.

“Perhaps they don’t talk,” said the red-haired man, scratching his (very ugly) nose.

“Well, they can still enjoy sea-pudding,” asserted Tulippa. “And will surely benefit from some fresh clothes – those are soaked through.”

Tulippa offered her slender hand. Her nails the same bright blue as her hair. Despite Tuffe’s reservations, they really felt wet and cold, and perhaps one of these people could point them towards Snufkin.

Tuffe turned down the hand, but they grabbed their cradle and started hauling it towards the lighthouse door. With a stunned little laugh, Tulippa and her husband followed them up the creaking stairs and into the lighthouse.

The inside of the lighthouse was much less grand than the exterior. Most of Tuffe’s ideas of what homes looked like was based on Snufkin’s old cabin, and the sets they used in the theatre. But they thought, very firmly, that a tower that was gold and gleaming on the outside should be equally opulent on the inside.

Yet that was not the case at all. Aside from being round, the little living room they led Tulippa and their husband into looked completely ordinary. There was the ordinary bookcase, the coffee table, the radio playing music, the fireplace where little embers licked at a long-abandoned log. There were canvases stacked against the wall, an easel stood up with a tiny canvas settled onto it, bearing a sketch of a flower.

Tuffe stood at the doorway, tail wrapped around their cradle. Tulippa touched their shoulder gently.

“We eat sea-pudding upstairs, in the glass room,” she said. “You can see the whole sea for miles and miles from there.”

Tuffe did not know what was so special about _that_ (one could see the sea from every direction in the theatre almost all the time), but they were curious about the glass room. So they nodded and followed Tulippa and her husband up the spiral staircase, through the trapdoor, and into the glass room.

There was the kitchen – with pots and pans and knives and shelves, but no drawers for a little Woodie to sleep in. There was the dining table, leaning a bit heavily on one leg, and four chairs that didn’t match even a little bit.

“You must have sea-pudding,” said the red-haired man.

“Really, you must!” said Tulippa. “My husband and I make the best sea-pudding in the wild country.”

“You’re a guest, little stranger,” said her husband, pulling out a chair at the dining table. After a moment’s thought, he fetched a few books and popped them on top. He smiled at Tuffe.

“There,” he said. “Now we can see eye to eye.”

Tuffe cautiously came forward and climbed up onto the chair, and then onto the books. It was not comfortable. But at least they would see over the table properly.

The man smiled and went to help Tulippa with something. Soon, they returned carrying a steaming basket between them. With grunts and huffs, they hefted the enormous thing into the centre of the table. There it sat, smelling of brine and sweetness, and Tuffe realised with something of a fright that they would very much like to try it.

Tulippa placed a wooden bowl and spoon before them, and then one each for at the opposite side of the table for herself and her husband. With great ceremony, the red-haired man lifted the lid from the basket, revealing something blue and rich as the summer ocean.

It smelled delicious, but Tuffe did not know what it was. They had never heard of sea-pudding, not once in the theatre. Their favourite food was beans with a bit of pepper, eaten from the tin. This was not that.

Quite suddenly, it became altogether terrifying, and Tuffe did not want to be with these large people and their strange foods. They thought of all the plays they’d worked in, with wolves in cottages and wicked witches feeding up children for the oven, poison in tea and fae food that trapped one where they stood! Quite against their wishes, they began to tremble.

“Eat as much as you like,” said Tulippa, spooning a great portion of sea-pudding into Tuffe’s bowl.

“Yes!” said the red-haired man. “You need food to grow! You’re far too little!”

This was too much. Tuffe seized the bowl and hurled it, as hard as they could, at the wall. This was not very hard, so it simply bounced off the wall and rattled across the floor, smearing glistening blue sea-pudding across the floor. Tulippa and her husband stared, wide-eyed and stunned, and Tuffe felt that brief flare of anger dissolve quickly into shame and fear.

Knocking down the books, they hopped to the floor and ran, down the spiral staircase, not even caring when they stumbled and scraped their knees.

****

Tulippa found them later, crouched in the garden. They had meant to go right away, but then they realised they’d left the cradle inside. Besides, they had precious little idea where they were. So they crouched miserably between the flowers. As the day turned to dusk, the buds above began to glow gently. Tuffe’s dark fur and white hair stood out under the colourful glow of the flowers, so Tulippa found them easy.

She said nothing when she found them, merely sat down nearby in a comforting sort of way. Tuffe looked at her again. She did not seem like a wicked witch waiting to devour lost children. Nor did she seem like someone who took in shipwrecked sailors just to poison them. Yet if there was one thing one learned working in the theatre, it was that things were not always the way they appeared.

The red-haired man did not come out. Tulippa did not say anything. She did not seem angry, or sad, she just sat and occasionally looked at them. Tuffe almost wished she would tell them off. It would make them feel less guilty.

“I am sorry about the sea-pudding,” they said finally.

If Tulippa was surprised to hear them speak, she was very polite about it. It can be embarrassing, after all, to have someone surprised by what you are capable of.

“It’s only one little bowl,” said Tulippa. “We make too much of it. And we are so proud of it we never ask what our visitors would like.”

“I like beans,” said Tuffe quietly.

“That’s a fine thing to like,” she said encouragingly.

“I only like beans,” they continued.

“Is it wise, to only like one thing?” she said, as though wondering this to herself, rather than asking anything of Tuffe. This was nice, as it meant Tuffe didn’t have to answer. It was much too difficult a question to answer, just like that.

“Do you have a Mamma or Pappa looking for you?” asked Tulippa gently.

“I’m looking for them,” said Tuffe, too fast to think about it.

“Your Mamma?” she replied. “Or your Pappa?”

Tuffe considered this question.

Snufkin was not a Mamma. But nor was Snufkin a Pappa. Snufkin was a lovely in-between-y thing. A thing that looked at both Mammas and Pappas and said “I could easily be either. If I wanted to. But I think I shall be something of my own invention”. And Tuffe felt that was the most wonderful thing in the world. They had tried to explain this once, but none of their brothers or sisters understood it. So Tuffe, curled up in their drawer and resting their white nose on Snufkin’s postcards, simply told themselves it would be enough that Snufkin understood. And he would, naturally.

“Neither,” said Tuffe, after much thought. Tulippa laughed, a light sound like a wind chime hanging from a sunny window.

“What a mysterious little creature you are!” she said. “Well, I will help you find whoever it is you are looking for. Can you tell me anything?”

Tuffe beat their tail hard against the ground. Describing Snufkin to the Catfish had been no use – she had brought them right here, which was the entirely wrong place to be. Perhaps Tuffe could not describe him well enough.

Snufkin’s own words, however…perhaps they would help. So Tuffe went to their pockets and brought out Snufkin’s postcards.

As soon as Tuffe laid eyes on them, they left out a dreadful cry and dropped them. The postcards were soaked through – the words bloated and misty, the edges curling, the stamps peeled off. Tuffe couldn’t bear to look at them and think of their own carelessness. They put their paws over their eyes.

“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Tulippa. “These have gotten a little wet, haven’t they? Are they important?”

Tuffe nodded.

“Oh now, don’t cry.”

They weren’t crying. Tuffe hated when people thought they were going to cry when they weren’t. People did it all the time, the same way people assumed they hated the spotlight, or that they were too shy to enjoy this or that. They pulled their paws away from their eyes. Tulippa was frowning down at the postcards.

“I think,” she said carefully, “if we light a fire and hang them up carefully, we may be able to dry them out. Would you like to try that?”

Tuffe nodded.

“May I touch them?”

Tuffe hesitated but nodded again. Tulippa very carefully picked up each postcard, as though they were as precious to her as they were to Tuffe, and then stood.

“Shall we go back inside?” she asked. Tuffe followed her inside.

Inside, Tulippa and her husband lit a fire and carefully laid out the postcards before it. After a quiet conversation, Tulippa’s husband brought Tuffe some beans in tomato sauce to eat, straight from the can with a metal spoon. After a few mouthfuls, Tuffe began to feel a little happier, or at the very least less sad.

“Your clothes are very wet too,” said Tulippa. “Would you like to hang them up and head to bed?”

“Is there a drawer?”

“Pardon?” asked Tulippa, astonished.

“Is there a drawer for me to sleep?”

“Why, there’s a perfectly lovely bed in the guest room!”

Tuffe shook their head. The red-haired man looked between them, and then leaned down and whispered something in his wife’s ear. Tulippa smiled.

“Well,” said Tulippa. “We have dry blankets and pillows and lovely things, and we can put them all in your little boat instead.”

Tuffe knew very well it was the red-haired man’s idea, and he simply didn’t want to say as much as Tuffe had taken a disliking to him. Yet they did feel better for Tulippa having said it, so they nodded.

****

The Great Grey Beach – as Snufkin had dubbed it – seemed to have no end. He walked and walked and walked, and still there seemed more of the stony shore to walk along. There were no fishermen or harbours, only the occasional rockpool, holding red crayfish or mottled clams that Snufkin fished up and crunched down for supper. He was not very hungry these days, so it didn’t take much to keep his stomach full.

The Groke reappeared on the second night, singing her dirge and floating across the frothing surface of the sea. She didn’t approach or even look at Snufkin, even when he built a campfire almost as big as himself, filling the grey horizon with heat and colour. She didn’t care, she just continued her graceful walk, singing and singing and singing away.

He supposed, Snufkin thought, staring at her through the glow of the fire, that he should be pleased for her. Whatever pain had sent her scouring the world for light had finally been lifted. Her lonely life hadn’t changed – it was her nature, after all – but perhaps that emptiness had.

He couldn’t find it in him to be happy. In fact, beneath the bone-deep exhaustion Snufkin carried with him day after day, there was a dangerous crackling. The sort that, if left unattended, could turn to anger that burned through you from bottom to top.

Perhaps he noticed it, perhaps he didn’t. But whether he saw it or not, the Snufkin was in no state to do anything with it.

So it was left unattended, even as Snufkin dozed off to the Groke’s song, the campfire burning to ash before him.

****

Tuffe woke to someone singing from the garden. They climbed out of the warm bundle of blankets of the cradle. Tulippa was nowhere in sight. The fire had burned out, and Snufkin’s postcards were still laid out in front of it like a tarot spread. Tuffe looked at them from afar, but then decided they were much too frightened to check if they were alright. They couldn’t deal with the heartbreak again so soon.

Tulippa had left their onesie hanging over the windowsill to dry. That was, happily, ready to wear. Tuffe pulled it down and dressed, neatly pulling their tail through. They found their comb (thankfully none the worse for wear from the seawater) and tidied their hair and the tuft of their tail as nicely as they could.

Today, I will be pleasant, Tuffe decided. I will be outspoken and easy to love, like Rulfe, and I will not be strange and difficult anymore.

Tuffe decided such things often.

I’m sure you know, however, that it is easy to make such a resolution and very difficult to follow through.

Regardless, Tuffe always felt very confident in the morning, after combing their hair and making their tail look neat and tidy. So they marched out of the front door, saw the red-haired sitting with a book in his lap, and said as confidently as they could manage:

“Hullo!”

The red-haired man, however, was so consumed in reading to the flowers, that he didn’t notice at all.

Tuffe felt most put-out. But the sight of a man sitting and reading aloud to flowers was so peculiar, their curiosity overpowered their desire to storm off in a huff. They descended the stairs carefully, walking closely so they could hear.

“The little fire spirit, however, had been out in the air so long she was beginning to wane, and not even her wickedness, which had always been so reliable, could restore her,” read the man, in a low, steady voice, as though he was trying to lull babies to sleep. “So the little fire spirit, who had always been able to burn so bright all on her own, needed to –“

Tuffe sneezed.

The red-haired man jumped, finally noticing Tuffe for the first time.

“Oh, good morning,” he said, sounding a little nervous. Tuffe looked away and mumbled back good morning. They stood there for a long and painful moment, and the red-haired man did not return to his reading.

“Why are you reading to them?” asked Tuffe finally. The red-haired man looked away and smiled gently, folding down the corner of the page (and ignoring Tuffe’s look of disgust at such an act).

“These flowers are special,” he said. “May I introduce you to them?”

That sounded like a very silly thing to Tuffe, but they had decided to be pleasant today. So they nodded. The red-haired man smiled and closed his book, getting to his feet.

“Tulippa and I planted these all together, just after we got married,” he said. “We’ve been living together since we were very small, you see, but it didn’t occur to us to get married for a long time.”

Tuffe wanted to ask why not, but they suspected this was rather meant to be a _soliloquy._

“Our wedding day was just us, but it was wonderful! Neither of us have traditions, so we made it all up from bits and pieces of other people’s. Many people have sea-pudding with us, you see,” he continued, beginning to walk with great joy. “We wore ribbons like moomins, made little carvings like snorks, rang bells and sang like fuzzies, and ate a great big cake like hemulens. We were out on our beach all night, dancing so wildly that even a trio of hattifatteners floated over to see what the fuss was!”

Tuffe wished they hadn’t asked.

“And then on the night – well you are perhaps a little young for that. Let’s dash-dash-dash that. But regardless, we discovered we couldn’t start a family the normal way,” he continued. Tuffe frowned, not sure what the normal way was, but certain they did not want to know. The red-haired man shook his head. “So, we planted this garden. For almost two years, we have been tending it.”

The man stopped to crouch down, pulling out a little brown leaf that had sprouted at the best of one of the stems, gently.

“Two years is not long, not really,” he said, touching the stem gently, “but it is such a long time to wait for something.”

“Wait for what?” asked Tuffe, terribly bored of this soppy story. It was not like one of Snufkin’s stories in the least, which were exciting and dangerous, but always with a happy ending.

“My little ones to be born, of course,” he said, laughing, standing up and looking up at the flower buds drifting in the breeze. “When the flowers finally bloom, at least one of them will have a beautiful little baby inside. There’s eighty-eight, so luck is one our side.”

“Eight-eight?” repeated Tuffe, horrified. Imagine if every flower bloomed and had a baby inside! Growing up the smallest of 24 was bad enough, but the smallest of 88 would be dreadful. And there would be a smallest – after all, there had to be.

“It’s a lucky number,” said the red-haired man cheerfully, turning a corner to take Tuffe down the last path of the garden. It was there Tuffe spotted something unusual – while the rest of the flowers were so tall Tuffe had to crane their neck to see the bud, this was barely taller than Tuffe themselves. The stem lacked the bold stripes of the others, instead it was a green so pale it was almost white. The bud itself was ashen-coloured, with only a feeble glow.

Tuffe stopped before they realised it, looking at the little flower.

“Oh, you’ve noticed that one,” said the red-haired man. “Gardening is a funny thing. You can give the bulbs all the same care and attention, but some just won’t grow right at all.”

The little flower trembled, almost as if it could hear and understand.

“My wife thinks they will bloom this coming spring,” said the red-haired man. “I hope that includes even the ones a little rum like this one.”

“It’s a nice little flower,” insisted Tuffe.

“It is,” he agreed, disappointing Tuffe a little – they had been rather hoping for an argument. The man looked at Tuffe a while longer.

“Why don’t you run along inside and see how your letters have dried out?”

Tuffe knew well enough when grown-ups were sending them away, so they headed back to the lighthouse. Glancing behind them, they saw the red-haired men sit back down, beginning to read again to the little flower.

Inside the house, Tulippa was brushing her hair by the window, each strand shimmering as she ran the brush through it.

Despite their best efforts, Tuffe found they could not go straight to the postcards. Instead, they froze, just far enough they couldn’t tell if they had been saved or not. Tulippa kept on brushing her hair, humming and keeping her gaze carefully averted.

Slowly, on all fours with their tail plucked high in the air, Tuffe made a few tentative steps forward and touched the very first postcard with the tip of their claw.

It was dry. Creeping closer, Tuffe saw that they had all dried and stayed in at least one piece. The ink had washed into complete unreadability on one, but the others could at least be deciphered. Snufkin’s drawing of himself with the flower had remained intact.

“They’re not as they were,” they said gloomily. Their most precious treasures and they had failed to care for them properly! What would Snufkin say when he found out?

“Oh, they’ve dried out okay,” said Tulippa, tying up her hair. “You’re very serious about things.”

With nobody feeling sorry for them, Tuffe felt it wasn’t worth continuing to be sad. They began gathering up the postcards when there was a great flash of light and a shout from outside:

“Darling! Darling come quickly!”

Frowning, Tulippa got up and walked swiftly outside. Clutching their postcards, Tuffe followed, following the glow of Tulippa’s blue ponytail. Something was glowing within the garden - an uncertain, fluttering light. Right at the back of the garden, the little flower was shining, the light a little wobbling and uncertain, leaves stretching out as though trying to grow taller as quickly as it could.

The red-haired man was on his knees, the book abandoned spine-up in the grass, his eyes very wide.

“Oh dear,” said Tulippa, “it’s blooming! It’s much too early for that.”

“Will it be okay?” asked the red-haired man.

“I don’t know,” she said, dropping to her knees beside him, “but you cannot tell it to stop and wait now it’s ready.”

“What should we do?” he asked, flapping his hands about in a panic. “Should I get sea-pudding?”

“Forget the sea-pudding for _once_ , darling!” snapped Tulippa.

“It’s what I’m best at!”

“You’re wonderful at many other things!” she said crossly. “But this isn’t the time to talk about that! We all need to encourage the little flower. That includes you, little creature.”

Tuffe was surprised to be addressed. For a second, they had felt as though they were watching a play on stage. Yet here was Tulippa turning around right in the middle of a scene and talking to them.

Tuffe shuffled forward and crouched between them, leaning against Tulippa’s arm.

“Come on little one,” said the man.

“Just a little further!” continued Tulippa.

“You’re almost there!”

“You can do it!”

And a lot of things like that. Tuffe leaned forward, not quite able to say anything like that, but they tried very hard to believe it all the same.

The little flower swayed, the bud twisting slowly, petals beginning to curl. As it did, the white glow turned warmer, like a slow sunrise, until the petals were pink from top to bottom.

Slowly and brightly, the tulip twisted open, revealing a bright white pistil and curling filaments. Curled small and tight in the stigma, was the shape of a little child, with bright pink hair. Their little paws were tucked under the round curve of their cheek, eyes closed. With shaking hands, the red-haired man leaned forward and plucked up the little tulip-child. They were puppy-tiny, fitting in the cup of his hands.

Tulippa and the red-haired man collapsed against each other, descending to quiet sobs and funny, broken little laughs. Tuffe felt the scene begin to end, and realised at this point they should step back, let the curtain close on the little family.

They looked at the tiny pink-haired baby, its tightly clenched little paws, the way Tulippa and her husband cooed and sobbed over it, even though it was doing absolutely nothing at all. They stood up and headed back to the house, clinging to one another desperately. Tuffe stared at their long shadows across the grass, so close they looked like one looming dark creature.

Tuffe felt very cold. They did not belong here with these brightly coloured people at all. They needed to leave.

After a long moment, they followed the happy family up the stairs. The red-haired man was squeezing the dew from a tiny flower into the little baby’s mouth. Tulippa sat on the windowsill, her hairbrush abandoned, simply staring at her red-haired husband and her pink-haired baby.

Tuffe marched right in front of her, taking their postcards from their pocket and shoving Snufkin’s little sketch towards her.

“Oh,” said Tulippa, blinking in a very familiar way. It meant that she had forgotten they were there and was politely trying to pretend she hadn’t. “Is this for us?”

Tuffe scowled and shook their head.

“Snufkin,” they muttered fiercely, shoving the postcard closer to them. Tulippa sat up, letting the red-haired man bundled the little flower-child close to him.

“Is that who you’re looking for? A snufkin?” asked Tulippa. Tuffe nodded

“We’ve had quite a few snufkins eat our sea pudding, dear,” she said. “May I take a look?”

Tuffe hesitated, but then the baby began to burble, and they shoved the postcards into Tulippa’s hands before she could rush off to attend to the little creature. Pursing her black lips, she carefully moved through each postcard.

“Oh!” she said. “Your Snufkin lives in Moominvalley?”

Tuffe took their paw from their mouth.

“He lives everywhere!” he said, so loudly that the red-haired man looked over. They looked away. “But he does stay in Moominvalley a lot. He goes there the first day of spring.”

“Well, what luck!” she said, beaming. “As it happens, an old friend of mine is a lovely little moomin lady who lives in the valley with her husband and son. We wrote to each other for a while. I’m sure I have a map somewhere.”

Tuffe bounced up and down, lashing their tail and too happy to speak. They followed as she rummaged in chests and through drawers, muttering quietly to herself.

“Oh I have an address, here,” she said, bringing out a little cream envelope. On the back, in rather loopy and uneven handwriting, was an address:

_Moominmamma_

_Moominhouse_

_Moominvalley_

And then a little symbol that Tuffe knew told the postman where, exactly, that was. Since Tuffe was not a mail-carrier, however, they couldn’t read it. Tulippa handed the envelope to Tuffe and turned back to continue searching. Finally, she pulled out a sheet of paper, yellowed and curling at the edges.

“Here we are!” she said, and then spread it across the floor before Tuffe. It was a map, drawn in black ink, with fanciful illustrations and labels crammed in looping text. They were marked on the map as _The Golden Lighthouse_. Tuffe placed the tip of their finger gently on the tower, tracing a path through the forest, looping around the mountains, and down beneath the mountains. Beneath that, following the loop of the river, was a broad expanse of grass, labelled Moominvalley.

“It’s a bit of a walk, but one can get there on foot,” she said. “We have to maintain the lighthouse, so we have never made the trip, but I don’t think it’s too difficult.”

It was perfect! Snufkin returned to Moominvalley on the first day of spring – he had written as much in one of his postcards. If Tuffe hurried, they could wait there to meet him.

Tuffe smiled, tracing their paw from the little tower labelled _Moominhouse_ , to the arc of the bridge, to the little tent drawn on the other side. Tuffe looked up at her, trying to find the right words – because surely just _Thank you_ wasn’t good enough –

And then the entire world began to shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A man who isn't Snufkin:** h-  
>  **Tuffe:** How dare you. Disgusting. Abominable. Awful. Never speak to me again.


	3. The Skerry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my sincere apologies to any geologists or geographers reading. This is not a realistic depiction of an earthquake and it's not meant to be. There are talking catfish and magic flower babies in this fic, babey!!!

Snufkin slept a long time on the Great Grey Beach. It was an unusual thing. The hard rock of the beach was not comfortable, but there was a lulling in the water the waves broke and crashed against the shore, so constant. There seemed to be no tide, and the wind never changed direction or grew faster. It was the same hiss and crash, hiss and crash, hiss and crash, no matter how long one listened. The only thing that broke the monotony was the Groke’s song, undulating over the sea, but even that seemed to be in time with the hiss and crash, Snufkin thought.

Once or twice he took his mouth-organ from his pocket and held it. He would play five bars, a little thing he knew front to back, but then would lose motivation, and put it away.

Besides, there was nothing he could add to the Great Grey Beach’s song. It was complete in its emptiness. So he put it back in his pocket and closed his eyes again, letting hiss rush over his body, the crash pull him under.

Snufkin became certain that the only thing one could really do on the Great Grey Beach was sleep.

It was between these long periods of sleep, as Snufkin lay slowly eating broken crackers from a dusty box he found at the pit of his rucksack, that he felt the world shake.

It started small, a tremble so little that anyone would wonder if they imagined it, but as though this had cracked the surface of a frozen lake, the next shake came terribly. Snufkin’s tent collapsed on itself, the pegs sprung from the stone, the canvas toppling onto him. Something was groaning and screeching. There was a great smash – the paraffin lamp tumbling down and shattering on the hard rock, no doubt. As awake as a startled animal, Snufkin desperately kicked himself free of the blankets and canvas, scrambling out into the dim light on all fours.

The Great Grey Beach had come alive, Snufkin realised, and it was angry. It shook and rumbled, the waves rising and crashing against the grey stone. Snufkin sprawled flat on the rock, clutching his hat to his head. Between the spraying water, the rumbles of the earth, the dizzying rocking beneath him, he had barely the sense to understand what was happening.

There was another cracking, and Snufkin realised it was the very earth behind him. A black line, jagged as a lightning bolt, had appeared between his tent and the rest of the beach.

Frantic, Snufkin tried to get to his feet, his hat blowing away in a sudden wind, and then he stumbled back, falling again as the earth shook. It was too late – the crack widened, the sea licking up between them, driving them further apart.

Snufkin dropped down again, barely dodging a spray of rock, and then the little patch of the beach was broken away, floating away on the roaring sea. Stunned, Snufkin watched the Great Grey Beach shrink and shrink on the horizon until it disappeared.

Drifting on the waves, Snufkin sat alone on the skerry, the ocean still booming in his ears.

****

The earthquake threw the books from the shelves, toppled the leaning table, and brought down the clock from the wall, where it shattered and sprayed clockwork in every direction. Tuffe instantly dropped down, shielding their head with their paws. Tullippa and the red-haired man seized each other, holding themselves around the little pink-haired baby. The world roared once more, furious, rattling Tuffe down to his tiniest bones.

And then everything went still.

“Is everyone okay?” asked the red-haired man, voice thin, the pink-haired baby clutching to his shirt and whimpering.

“The other tulips,” said Tulippa, in one breath, and then she was out of the door, precious little else in mind.

Tuffe and the red-haired man sat in shocked silence with another. It may have been minutes or hours, Tuffe wasn’t sure, until Tullippa returned, her face pale and her mouth pressed tight.

“How are they?” asked her husband.

“We can save them,” she said, and began gathering up gardening tools from a chest by the door, “but we need to act right away. The sea has changed – we’re an island now.”

“An island!” said her husband. Tulippa shook her head, as though this was neither here nor there.

“The world must have felt the need to change. Such things happen now and then,” she said, and then tugged on her husband’s arm. “Come on, up you get. We can’t waste a moment.”

Tuffe looked at the map – there had been a path to walk from here to Snufkin, and in an instant, it was gone, swallowed up by a greedy sea.

Tuffe got up, thrusting the map up towards Tulippa as she went out the door. She looked down at them, eyes crinkling with pain.

“I’m sorry, little one,” she said, cringing. “I can’t – there’s much to do here, many important matters to attend to, I can’t spare a moment. You must understand.”

This wasn’t new to Tuffe, but they swallowed all the same.

“Take whatever you want or need. All the beans we have, anything,” she said, “but I can’t spare a moment, I’m sorry.”

With her basket of gardening tools in her arms and her husband following quickly behind, Tulippa stepped out the door. Tuffe climbed up to the windowsill and looked out – the tulip garden was a mess, ran through with cracks, the tulips slumped and tangled with one another. And beyond that, the sea, clawing at the edges of the new island.

They sat for a moment, watching Tulippa and her husband uprooting flowers, untangling stems, filling wheelbarrows with dirt. The little pink-haired baby was slung against the red-haired man’s chest, sleeping on, oblivious as their parents tried to save all their potential siblings.

Tuffe needed to act quickly too. Snufkin was still out there, alone in the earthquake. Hurt or lost, maybe.

They looked again at the map. If they found a compass, perhaps they could row to Moominvalley, coming to dock at the little boathouse, and then walk the rest of the way to Snufkin’s tent.

Forgetting everything else, Tuffe began to search for a compass.

****

Snufkin sat on the skerry for a long while, as the sea began to calm and the skerry began to slow, finding the new place it would live in the sea. In time, gulls and seals would come to rest on it, staying briefly to sun themselves or peck moss from the rocks, before moving on. A skerry was not for living on, after all.

The strangest thing was that Snufkin had no idea what to do. It wasn’t as if he had never been in strange situations like this. Yet all other times, he always came up with something clever and daring to do.

He closed his eyes. Right away, he started to think of the family. It happened, sometimes, whether he liked it or not. Normally, he’d push the thought back, but he was much too tired to even try. So he imagined them on the skerry with him, soaked through but none the worse for wear for the earthquake.

The father would be barely able to contain his glee at a disaster of this degree. He’d place himself at the tip of the skerry, leaning out with his spyglass pressed to one eye.

“Just miles and miles of water, as far as one can see!” the father would cry, closing the spyglass and jumping down to join the rest of the family. “Why, we may be lost at sea for months. Yes, take my word for it, dear family, we must re-adjust to the life of a castaway.”

The mother, once satisfied her precious handbag had survived the quake, would nod.

“Of course, dear,” the mother would say, with more patience than anyone around her deserved. “I think it will be terribly exciting.”

And there was their daughter too. She would have her shoes off already, splashing her bare toes in the sea, smiling unpleasantly.

“Oh yes, terribly exciting,” the daughter would say, barely containing a laugh. “Especially when we get hungry. Who will we eat first, do you think?”

“Don’t be morbid, dear,” the mother would reply, not even scolding. After all, how could she criticise her daughter simply for being herself? The family always gave each other room to be themselves, no matter how unpleasant that person was.

And then there would be their son, leaning over the side of the skerry and observing the water. Snufkin could see the tilt of his back, the familiar curve of his soft arm. He had been getting so tall, last Snufkin saw him. Perhaps he’d be taller still.

And the son would say

What would the son say?

With a flash of pain in his chest, the image vanished, just as fast as it came, and Snufkin opened his eyes. A chill breeze blew across the skerry, throwing up the grey dust hard enough to make him cough.

He stood, feeling bare and cold without his hat. He supposed he should be grateful his hair had grown out enough to cover his neck, but he had been wanting to shave it all off again soon. Without his hat to cover his mymble antennae, it wasn’t an option. Hiding them was difficult enough as is.

Snufkin stood, looking out over the ocean, and decided apropos of nothing, that it was time for a swim.

When he was much smaller, Snufkin had spent a while living as a beach-comber. He had washed ashore on a basket, after all. If it was a better story, he’d have been found wrapped in seal-skin, glowing white like fresh snow. But as it was, he had just been found, a small and ugly child, soaked to the bone and wailing. He stayed on that beach until the circus visited, and his curiosity and wanderlust spurred him to join them.

It turned out he had a great talent for diving. He learned to swim without a teacher and had the rare trick of holding his breath for far longer than most. It was simply a matter of not needing to breathe, he had told anyone who asked. With his bright eyes still open under the water, he managed to pull up clams and mussels. Things that crawled and rested along the seabed, brought to the shore and cracked open. In the normal way of things, they were to be served at great cost on bone-white plates, with a curl of pale sauce and a small tangle of fried greens. Snufkin would occasionally consent to trade them – for a pouch of tobacco, a small spinning top, an apple, a stick bar of fudge – but mostly he brought them back and sucked them raw from the shell.

In those days – although the memories were fuzzed with time – Snufkin had expected it was only a matter of time before he could live in the sea full-time. Resting three fingers on each side of his neck, he expected to feel his skin part one morning. To wake with flapping gills, ready to breathe saltwater.

An over-active imagination, people told him when he said as much, chattering too quickly for adults to follow or other children to tolerate.

When my gills grow in, he said in reply, I will vanish beneath the surface of the sea and never rise to the top again. He’d crawl into one of those dark sea caves he’d seen on his dives, decorate it with gathered shells and pieces of shipwreck. He’d curl up and sleep there, breathing water, tiny fish feeding on the lichens in his skin.

Snufkin was no longer sure whether he had intended that as a threat or a promise. He supposed most children saw little difference between the two.

He had not thought of those fantasies for a long time. After the comet, he accepted his throat would remain as it was, and he forgot about those sea-dreams entirely.

As he stripped down to his undershirt and bloomers (he was now too embarrassed to remove everything when he swam, you see), his fingers went to his neck, reflexively, and the memory came rushing back. He only hoped the memory of how to dive came back as easily.

The grey surface of the water gave way. Snufkin kept his eyes open – there was a certain trick he had, a closing-your-eyes-but-not, that let him keep his eyes under the water. Later, he had learned this was a trait from one side of his family – a thin second eyelid that would protect his eye from water but still let him see – but that rather spoiled it. So, he decided to stubbornly think of it as a little trick of his own design, rather than one of pure genetics.

His lungs felt heavy in his chest as he swam downward, swollen fat with air. Little fish darted past him, keeping an uneasy distance from this intruder in their space. As he went further down, the grey colour gave way to others – the turquoise of shining water, pink stone, little golden fish and the deep green of weeds, growing up from the rocks. From the corner of his eye, he was certain he saw a squid, its colour shifting quickly as it darted between the rocks, ready to swallow some unhappy prey.

He scooped up little creatures with striped shells buried in the sand. Moving swiftly, he went back to the skerry, depositing his finds, and then refilled his lungs to dive again.

There had been swims, many of them. Diving from docks to swim circles and splash one another, laughing rising like bubbling waves. Paddling in the river on warm days, more walking than swimming. Walking in moonlit water, tucked out of sight beneath a cliff (because they knew, even then, what they were doing wasn’t quite allowed).

But it had been a much longer time since Snufkin had swam to survive. And he had almost forgotten the simple joy of that.

****

Tuffe did not stop to say goodbye. As soon as he rowed away, compass in one paw and map in the other, his tiny ship laden with tins of beans, he regretted that. It was rude, after all. But it was not important. Tulippa and her husband would be preoccupied with their own child, their own little stories. Tuffe doubted they would remember the little creature who had snuffled so insolently around their home, and then disappeared just as suddenly as they came.

The important thing was that they had a compass and a map. They had even found a little plastic envelope for Snufkin’s postcards – they were now triple-wrapped and safely waterproof in their pocket. Turning the cradle, now heavy with beans, was a more difficult task than Tuffe anticipated, especially when one was trying to keep an eye on the compass, the map, the disappearing tower in the distance, and try to figure out how the there came together. It seemed like such a simple thing in plays and novels.

They supposed this was why ships had people whose entire job was to do the navigation.

Eventually, they managed to get the cradle turned in what they thought was the right direction, rowing as hard as they could.

Unfortunately, Tuffe did not know what often followed earthquakes at sea.

****

Limbs pleasantly sore, Snufkin shook himself and squeezed the water out of his hair. He had amassed a fine supper – a variety of shellfish, a fat red-shelled crab, and a tangle of sea greens.

The skerry didn’t seem to have moved much while he was gathering dinner. In the utter solitude of the floating skerry, Snufkin saw little point in redressing in his old coat and boots. Especially with his hat missing. Putting everything back on would simply remind him his hat was lost, and he refused to let himself feel sad about it.

So he remained in his undergarments as he ate, chewing down the uncooked greens, plucking out the salty meat from the shell of the mussels. He cracked the crab between his teeth, lapping out the white meat, chewing it and enjoying the spread of salt on his tongue. Satisfied, he laid on his back, resting his paws on his stomach, pleasantly full.

This was the way to live, he told himself, gently kicking his heels in the water. To live in wonderful loneliness, living only from what could forage and catch with one’s own two paws. It was how he had lived for so long – he wasn’t sure why he had decided to change. It was a splendid lifestyle.

For a moment, Snufkin fiercely believed he was entirely content. And perhaps he was, at least for a little bit.

Unfortunately, it had also slipped his mind what often followed an earthquake at sea.

****

It happened suddenly. One second, Tuffe was rowing in a quiet sea, when suddenly the water began to froth. Taking the wooden spoons from the water, they stood, checking they had tied down their equipment properly (one got very good at tying knots and other such things, working with theatre props). Tulippa hadn’t had a spyglass, so they were stuck leaning over the edge of the crib, squinting into the horizon.

The water was moving, rising, and Tuffe suddenly realised there was a tsunami sweeping towards them. They sat back down, panicking, and seized the wooden spoon. It is, of course, utterly impossible for a little woodie to out-row a tsunami, but poor Tuffe had lost their head completely.

Despite rowing so desperately that their arms and shoulders arched, the water was rising and roaring all around them. The great wave frothed and reached out and took little Tuffe. Abandoning all pretences at rowing, they hung desperately onto the cradle, as the water tossed them and turned them and then enveloped them completely.

****

The tsunami came to Snufkin as hands, seizing cold and dragging him beneath the water. He barely had time to take a breath, and then he was out in the air again, gasping and sodden. It pulled him under again, fingers biting-tight around his wrists, and for a second Snufkin was sure he heard a song from deep beneath the waves, low and mournful, and a pair of eyes, round and bright as an anglerfish, and a long mouth of flat teeth.

A cold terror Snufkin had forgotten seized him from the inside out. He kicked, gasping and breathing in water, thrashing until his snout broke the water again, coughing out water, taking in air. The wave grabbed him again, pulling him under. The singing was in his waterlogged ears, burbling through the murk.

He was out of the worse of the wave, it seemed, but he had been thrown far from his little skerry. He kicked again, but something wound around his ankle, pulling and tugging.

Dying at sea would be a fitting end. The thought came hard, striking him in the stomach. Perhaps he should simply go limp. Let the sea take and do whatever it wished.

Before he could, he felt something grab him under his shoulders, pulling him upwards. The water parted, and he saw a pulled above him, pulling a fishing net to the surface of a boat.

Coughing, he wrapped his fingers around the rope and pulled himself upright, looking down.

Below, the head of the great turtle lifted from the water, and blinked a giant yellow eye up at him. Snufkin froze, looking again at the ship. Not a ship at all, it seemed, but a house, built on the back of an enormous sea-turtle.

“Oh dear, sweetie!” called a very familiar voice from above. “How in the Booble’s name did you get yourself tangled up there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Snufkin, crying and eating raw shellfish in his underwear** : I'M DOING FINE WHO'S MOOMINTROLL HA HA HA HAHA HA HA


	4. The Grasshoppers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Everyone:** Please for the love of god stop talking about the giant grasshoppers from Comet.  
>  **Me:** Hello I made MULTIPLE grasshopper OCs let's all meet them.

“There’s a little whomper baby washed up!”

“No, no, dear boy! I believe that is a _woody_. A northern breed, I think.”

“Chaps, does it matter what it is? What matters is whether it’s dead!”

“Of course, it’s dead! Look at the dear.”

“Shall we eat it?”

“You can’t eat a babe straight from its cradle!”

“Oh honestly. _Men_. So squeamish.”

“Oh, the little dear’s waking up!”

Tuffe sat up, spitting out sand and saltwater. Thankfully, they were a woody, and not a whomper. A whomper, unfortunately, is quite a fragile creature, and if they had been tossed about and washed ashore by a tsunami…well, let’s not think about that.

Woodies, however, are wonderfully resilient. Let’s just feel grateful for that, and not think about the poor hypothetical whomper.

“It lives!” cried the female voice.

“Don’t be rude!”

“Oh, help the poor thing up, I can’t bear it.”

Tuffe blinked, vision swimming back.

Five huge green monsters loomed over him.

Tuffe squealed, throwing themselves back, and then hissed as pain shot up their leg. The monsters – huge and scally, with dribbling mandibles and huge bulging eyes – jumped back just as badly.

“Oh dear, you think the little creature’s ever seen a grasshopper before?” said one.

“Precious few of us, I suppose, after that whole business with the comet,” said another, his antennae twitching.

“Well, perhaps they’ve seen a _praying mantis_ before,” said the female one, who seemed to be the largest, and of a slightly brighter colour than the rest, with luminous colours in her wings.

“You’re scaring them!” shouted one, waving something in the air.

It was then that Tuffe noticed all the creatures were holding instruments. The praying mantis had a little harp tied to her back. The first grasshopper was carrying a violin, the other a saxophone, the next a guitar, and the last had the unenviable task of carrying a cello.

Tuffe noted, with no small amount of disdain, that none of them played a mouth-organ.

“You’re a band,” said Tuffe, fur settling just a touch. They dealt with bands in the theatre all the time – helping carry and maintain equipment, cleaning out the orchestra pit after productions finished.

“Oh, look at that,” said the Violinist, “the little dear must like music. Why yes, poppet, we are a band.”

“Speaks well for a baby,” said the Harpist, tilting her head and twitching an antenna. “Perhaps they’re fully-grown.”

“No, woodies settle when they’re older,” said the Saxophonist, with the absolute certainty of one who privately considered themselves the ‘smart one’. “This one has no roots, you see.”

“Can we please stop talking about the little darling as though they’re not even here!” demanded the Cellist.

“Oh for _once_ , dear, don’t get on your high-horse,” groaned the Guitarist. “Why must singers always be like this?”

“I’m a cello player, first and foremost, thank you!”

In the style of bands everywhere, they all descended into an argument. Tuffe wasn’t much interested in this. They righted themselves, touching the pocket where they kept Snufkin’s postcards. Finding them there, they breathed a sigh of relief.

“My ship,” they muttered to themselves. They couldn’t see the cradle anywhere.

“Oh, they’re up,” said the Harpist, as the Guitarist and Cellist continued to argue.

“Are you looking for something, dear?” said the Violinist, trying to follow them. Tuffe waved him away, irritated. To be fussed over by someone who hadn’t even the sense to choose a decent instrument to play was a humiliation far beyond what they were willing to tolerate.

“You don’t think they’ve lost their family, do you?” whispered the Saxophonist. “Woodies live in large colonies, you see, with many siblings. One out alone –“

“Oh, yes, yes, we know,” said the Violinist.

“You didn’t,” he replied with great indignity. “You thought they were a whomper.”

“Come along, little creature, what are you looking for?” asked the Harpist. Tuffe looked at her. She looked rather disinterested. So far, she had fussed over Tuffe the least. She had even considered eating them.

Tuffe decided they liked her best.

“Ship,” they said.

“Pardon?”

“Ship!”

“Your ship?” she said, laughing. “My, my - you mean to tell me that you’re a captain?”

Tuffe didn’t want to continue this conversation any further and focused entirely on snuffling around in the sand, trying to catch the scent of their cradle. After being tossed about in the sea so much, all they could really pick up was the tang of salt and seaweed.

“Alright, stop it you two!” shouted the Violinist, as now the Cellist and the Guitarist were bickering about something completely different. “We need to help the little whomper –“

“Woody,” corrected the Saxophonist.

“ - help the little _dear_ find their lost ship.”

“Why should we?” demanded the Guitarist.

“Because we, dear boy,” said the Violinist, swelling with pride, “are _philanthropists_.”

And so, quite against Tuffe’s wishes, a merry band of grasshoppers began combing the beach with them, looking for signs of a shipwreck.

“There’s no ship here,” grumbled the Guitarist. “The whelp is having us on.”

“Are you, darling?” asked the Harpist, who seemed to regard all this as great fun (and didn’t give a hoot how it turned out). “Are you having us on?”

Tuffe looked up over their shoulder at her and shook their head.

“There you go,” she said cheerfully, “serious as the grave, this one.”

“You’re just having us do this because we don’t have any work booked,” muttered the Guitarist, but continued looking.

“One should always be willing to do a good turn!” said the Cellist loftily. “One never knows when one will need one onese –“

“Oh, _one_ doesn’t, does one?” tutted the Guitarist, and the two began squabbling yet again.

“Ah! I’ve found something!” called the Violinist. “Oh! Oh dear, smells terribly of pepper, what happened here?”

Tuffe perked up, scampering up towards the Violinist on all fours and pushing him aside. Their cradle was half-buried in the sand, just the little puppy carved onto the bow sticking out. Tuffe wished they had a somewhat more dignified figurehead – the puppy was wide-eyed and soppy, tongue lolling out and overall looking very silly.

Tuffe grabbed the cradle and began to pull.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” said the Violinist, wings buzzing. “Let me do it, little darling, you’ll pop your back!”

Ignoring him, they dug their heels into the sand, pulling so hard they were sure their sore shoulders would pop. They smacked the Violinist’s claws (all four of them) away.

“Oh, get out of the way, you useless fussbucket,” snapped the Saxophonist, pushing the Violinist out of the way so they could stand at the opposite end of the cradle, digging into the sand. Bit by bit, the cradle began to rise from the sand, bringing with it the blankets and rope and pillows Tuffe had bundled inside. Some of the wood was cracked, and Tuffe was certain it would never rock evenly again, but it still seemed to be in one piece.

“Well look at that!” said the Violinist. “Someone abandoned their little bab’s cradle here.”

“ _Ship_ ,” insisted Tuffe. The compass was there, but the map – oh, the poor map had been lost. Yes, the sea had moved around, but it had been a fine map. Tuffe had been considering perhaps having it framed and giving it to Snufkin as a gift when they found him.

“I think it’s their ship,” said the Harpist.

“Oh my. Er – well, of course! And what a fine vessel she is!”

Tuffe rolled their eyes. The Saxophonist hid a laugh behind their claw.

“Better news yet,” said the Harpist, standing up, revealing she’d been sitting on something in the sand. “I found tins of beans. We have dinner tonight.”

Tuffe turned, wide eyes, and then darted forward, gathering up the cans in their arms and dragging them away.

“Oh, are those yours too?” asked the Harpist. Tuffe paid her no heed, carefully piling the tins into the cradle. They took a length of rope and tied one end to the bow, the other end around their waist. They checked the compass, but without a map, it was quite useless.

They didn’t want to ask for more help. The Catfish had taken them to the wrong place, and Tulippa and her husband had only helped until something smaller and cuter and altogether more loveable came along. These grasshoppers would surely be no better.

“An independent little creature, aren’t they?” said the Saxophonist approvingly.

“A solo act, one could say!” cried the Violinist.

“Where do you suppose they’re going?” drawled the Harpist. “After taking food from the mouth of starving artists.”

“Oh, hush you,” said the Violinist. “Even you wouldn’t actually take food from a child.”

“Just let me get hungry enough.”

Tuffe pulled again on the cradle, but it was much heavier dragged across sand rather than rowed across the water. Another pain shot out from their leg and they cried out and fell. The Violinist rushed over instantly. Tuffe rolled onto their back and sat up, leaning over to inspect. Their little ankle was swollen, as though they’d swallowed a golf ball whole and it had rolled all the way down there.

“Oh dear, that looks like a nasty sprain,” said the Violinist.

“If they were caught in that tsunami, they’re lucky that’s all they have,” said the Harpist.

“What’s this then?” said the Cellist, drawn away from his argument with the Guitarist by the fuss.

“The little Woody’s hurt,” explained the Violinist, wringing their claws. “Oh dear, and we traded our first aid kit for whiskey! Whatever were we thinking?”

“Ah now, don’t fret, dear chap,” said the Saxophonist, leaning over to inspect Tuffe’s foot. “Woodies heal very quickly. A few hours not putting weight on it, and the little chap will be right as rain.”

A few hours! Tuffe didn’t have a few hours! They needed to get to Moominvalley before the first day of spring. That was how they could ensure they found Snufkin again.

Tuffe got back to their feet.

“Woah there, dear child!” cried the Violinist, joined by a chorus of reprimanding words from all the grasshoppers (and a laugh from the Harpist). Tuffe winced in pain, leaning against the Violinist despite their best efforts not to.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” asked the Cellist.

“It’s quite obvious, isn’t it?” said the Saxophonist. “The poor dear has been separated from their parents. They’re trying to get home.”

Tuffe nodded.

“Well, you aren’t getting anywhere on that ankle, silly creature!” snapped the Guitarist.

“Please, darling, let us help. Who is your Mummy and Daddy? Can we help you find them?” said the Violinist.

Tuffe looked fiercely at all of them. They seemed terribly kind, but Tuffe knew artists. They were fickle and capricious, becoming bored at the drop of a hat. They couldn’t be relied on in the least.

Yet their ankle did hurt awfully, so Tuffe didn’t see what other option they had.

“I’m going to Moominvalley,” they said.

“Moominvalley?” said the Violinist. “We’ve never played there, have we, chaps?”

“My cousin passed through back when the comet was drawing close,” said the Cellist. “Don’t know it myself, though.”

“Well what use is that!” cried the Guitarist.

“Wait, wait, we met someone from Moominvalley, didn’t we?” interrupted the Saxophonist. “In the last town we visited.”

“Why yes, that sweetshop we visited!” said the Violinist. “The place that did that wonderful marzipan.”

Tuffe’s tail began thumping the ground hard enough to kick up sand.

“Ah, so you _can_ get a little light in your eyes!” said the Harpist. “I was worried you were as cold and bleak inside as a groke.”

“There’s no need to be cruel,” said the Cellist.

“Oh, let’s take the dear there!” said the Violinist. “I’d feel just dreadful not helping.”

“We just came that way,” grumbled the Guitarist.

“But perhaps we can get more work there,” said the Saxophonist. “As you said, we have nothing else booked.”

“And why not be spontaneous,” drawled the Harpist, with a rumbling laugh. “What is the point of living a vagabond’s lifestyle if we can’t decide to go back the way we came just as suddenly as anything else. That wouldn’t be true freedom at all, would it?”

“Now, now. Let’s hear what the little chap themselves thinks,” said the Cellist, turning his attention to Tuffe. “Would you like us to carry you there? I think we could have you on one of our backs.”

“Would you really?” they asked cautiously. “You promise you won’t get bored and leave me halfway?”

“Of course not, dear,” said the Violinist, sounding appalled to be even asked.

Tuffe had to admit…they did want to see a real sweet shop.

****

Snufkin was dropped onto the deck with all the grace of a netful of cod. He fell on his face, legs kick up, before right himself, dripping water and coughing up more.

“Oh dear, I seem to have caught a little selkie in my net,” said the Mymble.

“Put me back,” he croaked.

He wasn’t sure why he said it, just that the pure panic of seeing the Mymble after so long. It was a stupid thing to say, really – if he knew the Mymble at all, he knew there was a good chance she might just agree and cheerfully toss him back overboard, and then sail on without a care in the world.

Thankfully, the Mymble was busying herself with sweeping off her purple leopard-print coat and wrapping it around Snufkin. It was so large it pooled on the floor around him, the fluffy collar all but burying his face. He may have been shivering and a little in shock, but he still felt terribly silly.

“And don’t you look _familiar_!” she cried, cupping his face and tilting it back and forth. “Hm hm hm, oh, that’s it! Why, you’re one of mine, aren’t you?”

Typical, Snufkin thought. You get tossed about by an earthquake and a tsunami, just to wash up on your mother’s ship in your underpants, and she isn’t even sure who you are! Families _were_ a cross.

“My little Nuuskamuikkunen!” she said, beaming at him. “Goodness. Let me give you some advice – never let a joxter name your child! You end up with such a mouthful.”

“Snufkin.”

“Oh yes! You’re Snufkin as well, aren’t you?” she agreed with a careless laugh. “Well, sweetie, you look like you’ve had quite the adventure! But I think some warm clothes might do you good.”

Struggling under the weight of her coat, Snufkin followed her down the corridor and into a little bedroom. Judging by the strong scent of lilac perfume, this was the Mymble’s own bedroom. She inspected her wardrobe for a second.

“Oh, my clothes will never fit you! You’re so little, sweetie,” she said, and then turned to open a different door. “Thankfully for you, chaps have a habit of leaving their clothes here!”

“What for?” asked Snufkin, teeth chattering.

“Oh, I expect they hope it’ll get them a second invitation,” replied the Mymble with a shake of her head. “Poor dears.”

She tossed him some trousers and a clean undershirt, as well as a patterned blouse to button up over it. Trying not to think too hard about where the clothes came from, Snufkin changed, glad that the Mymble was at least good enough to keep her back to him throughout. The Mymble clicked her tongue, rattling through the hanging clothes.

“Oh, here we go! I knew it was in here somewhere!” she said, and pulled out a sky-blue coat, with patches at the elbows, orange buttons, and a dried flower the colour of burnt umber pinned to the lapel. She held it out for him with a flourish. “Nice and old, and just your size!”

A chill went down Snufkin’s spine.

“No,” he said.

“No?” she asked, tilting her head.

“No,” he repeated.

He knew fine well whose coat that was, after all.

Mymble laughed.

“Oh dear, you always were a fussy little thing,” she said. Snufkin swallowed back disappointment – the Mymble was not the type of person who wanted to pursue a conversation like that any further than she had to, after all. After a moment, she produced an acceptable alternative: a navy coat that came down to his ankles, and a red scarf to keep the chill off his neck (“Not that you need it, with all that lovely hair, sweetie!”).

He politely declined the offer for a hat.

Fully dressed, the two stood for a long while, looking at one another in a silence that even Snufkin thought dragged on too long. The Mymble continued her merry smile throughout, as though nothing in the world was wrong.

It was then that Snufkin realised what was so very strange about the whole situation – when was the last time anyone had heard silence around the Mymble? In fact, ever since being pulled ashore, he had heard no crashing or banging, he had not been bitten even once, there had been no screaming or little feet pounding up and down the hallway.

“Where are the children?” he asked. The Mymble’s smile faltered, and she placed her paws on her stomach. Snufkin suddenly noticed her antennae – they had turned pale and grey, curling almost completely in on themselves.

“Well, strangest thing, sweetie,” she said. “Since the last litter left, there hasn’t been any more! And not for lack of trying, believe you me!”

Snufkin choked on thin air. If the Mymble thought her comment was scandalous, she didn’t show it.

“Let’s get you some hot soup and into bed, sweetie,” she said, all but picking him up under her arm. “You look like you could do with a little rest.”

****

Tuffe rode sat with their foot up on Harpist’s back, between her glittering wings. She had managed to get the Guitarist to carry her harp. The way she had done so had been very clever indeed. Upon discussing how they would rearrange the luggage, the had suggested quite casually to the Cellist that Guitarist shouldn’t do it – after all, he wasn’t used to carrying heavy instruments. The Cellist had chuckled and agreed, immediately incensing the Guitarist so thoroughly he insisted on carrying it, and Tuffe’s little cradle too.

The band chattered endlessly, as musicians tended to. Tuffe sat quietly, letting the words wash over them without particularly putting them together, as they did when their siblings were all chattering and bickering about something. The good and bad thing about being small was that it was very easy for everyone to forget you are there.

The Cellist and the Guitarist, leading the cloud, had dissolved into yet another argument. Tuffe couldn’t even follow what it was about this time – something about the distinction between swing and bebop. The Violinist was attempting to calm them down, while the Saxophonist, mostly being shouted over, attempted to explain what the distinction between swing and bebop _was_.

Only the Harpist stayed out of it, seemingly content just to amuse herself with the spectacle.

Eventually, the Cellist let out a great cry of ‘You are simply _impossible_ , dear chap!’ and stormed off ahead, wings buzzing angrily.

Tuffe frowned deeply at this. They did not like fighting. Their siblings fought constantly, bickering and shouting at one another, while Tuffe simply buried himself as deeply into their drawer as they could, paws pressed over their ears. More baffling was later, where even after the tears and shouting, their brothers and sisters were all cuddles and laughter again, closer to each other than they ever were to Tuffe, who never shouted at anyone.

“They’ll be in each other’s nests this evening,” said the Harpist suddenly, as though she read their mind (and Tuffe wouldn’t quite be surprised if she was capable of that). She laughed at their expression, a low noise that Tuffe more felt vibrating through her body than heard out of her mouth. “They’re mad for each other.”

“That makes no sense,” said Tuffe, folding their arms and glowering down at their toes.

“Oh yes, I couldn’t abide bickering like that myself,” she replied, “I used to tell them as much. It can’t be good for you, getting so upset all the time.”

“I like it better when people are kind to each other,” said Tuffe quietly.

“Oh yes, everyone does,” she continued briskly. “But it’s necessary to get upset with each other now and then. Nobody is perfectly happy with each other all the time. If it seems you are, at least one of you is pretending.”

Tuffe would rather pretend than have a fight. If they ever lost their temper or grew upset with someone, they were only ever deeply ashamed afterwards.

“I suppose you’re the type who would rather pretend all was well,” she said, again with unsettling clairvoyance. Tuffe nodded. She laughed.

“Well, darling, that is a habit you will have to break,” she said. “Unless you’re content to live the glamorous life of a doormat, that is. Now take another look at them.”

Tuffe scowled but did as they were told, watching the Guitarist. He was walking slowly, slumped at the shoulders and antennae drooping, and the Violinist chattering quietly but urgently to him. The Cellist continued walking ahead, stomping with as much force on every single footfall as they could, kicking up the dirt track.

After a moment of muffled chatter with both the Violinist and the Saxophonist, the Guitarist took off with a buzz of his wings, fluttering ahead to join the Cellist. The two of them walked together, talking quietly now, close enough their antennae were touching.

Tuffe still didn’t understand. They didn’t want to fight with someone all the time, just for sake of snatching a few little quiet conversations and pleasant moments here and there. Surely, they thought, if arguments were necessary then they should be very rare, like getting a bad cold.

The Violinist and the Saxophonist dropped back, falling into step with the Harpist.

“Honestly!” said the Violinist, sounding much exhausted. “You think after we’ve been on the road this long they’d have settled down.”

“They’ll be jolly with each now,” said the Saxophonist mournfully, “that’s almost worse.”

Sure enough, soon the Guitarist and Cellist re-joined them, walking practically tangled up with one another, both very giddy and occasionally leaning to touch their antennas together affectionately.

“We’ve been walking a long while, chaps,” said the Violinist, looking up at the dusk sky. “I think we should stop for a rest.”

The cloud of grasshoppers (plus Tuffe and the Harpist) came to a stop, finding a rather pleasant meadow to sit in. In the mild winter, no flowers were yet coming through, but the grass was green and dry, and there was space to build a fire. After depositing their luggage and instruments, the grasshoppers were able to fly more than a scant foot off the floor, so all of them but the Harpist (who simply settled down and lit a cigarette) flew off to gather firewood.

Quite soon, they were all settled around a merry fire. The Violinist brought out the whiskey he’d traded for, and they passed the bottle around, taking sips. Tuffe sat leaning against the Harpist’s abdomen, cheering by the fire and the band’s stories.

“Would you like some, darling?” asked the Harpist, offering the bottle to Tuffe.

“Don’t give the little dear alcohol!” cried the Cellist.

“It’s bad enough you’re smoking around the poor creature,” said the Saxophonist, looking critically at the cigarette holder in her claws. The Harpist took a long draw and blew out a smoke ring. “The science is starting to show the ill effects, you know.”

“If it was bad for you, it wouldn’t feel so lovely,” she replied.

“But the smell!” interrupted the Violinist. “It will stay right in their fur.”

“I like the smell,” said Tuffe quickly.

“There you go,” said the Harpist, jerking one antenna quickly down at Tuffe (they had worked out earlier that was something like a wink). “The darling likes it.”

“Either way, a teeny one like that shouldn’t drink alcohol,” said the Saxophonist.

Teeny indeed! Thinking about many things – about doormats and flower-babies and fighting siblings and people who were short with one another despite loving each other – Tuffe snatched the whiskey from the Harpist’s claws and took an enormous swig.

After a stunned silence, the grasshoppers cheered and laughed and rubbed their wings together in applause, even those who had been very much against Tuffe having any.

“Oh well, that’s me told,” said the Cellist, deeply amused. Tuffe coughed, trying to hide how much they disliked it. They handed it back to the Harpist, who seemed more surprised than anyone else.

“Let’s have a song, shall we, lads?” said the Guitarist, who had made such a turn in attitude that it made Tuffe dizzy. “What better way to make our new little companion feel welcome!”

“Oh yes, splendid idea, love!” said the Cellist, rubbing his antennae against the other’s yet again (the Harpist rolled her eyes at Tuffe, making them hide a giggle behind their paw).

“Do you have a favourite song, dear?” asked the Violinist. “I’m sure we can muddle our way through it.”

The band all looked at them. Tuffe fidgeted. They didn’t, really. Snufkin mentioned his mouth-organ and the spring-songs he wrote in his letters, but Tuffe had never heard one.

“Do any of you play the mouth-organ?” asked Tuffe.

The grasshoppers looked at one another.

“If I had one I probably could,” said the Saxophonist pompously. “It’s a woodwind instrument, after all.”

“Well, lucky for you, we don’t have one,” scoffed the Guitarist, “so you never need to put your money where your mandibles are.”

“I’d like a spring song,” said Tuffe quietly.

“A spring song?” repeated the Violinist, who was still paying careful attention to them.

“To make it come sooner!” said the Cellist, spilling whiskey on the grass with a wide sweep of his arm. “Splendid idea, little creature! I’ve had quite enough of the cold and the damp and the dreariness. Let’s sing the spring here!”

“No, no, don’t make it come sooner!” cried Tuffe, in a panic. “I haven’t reached Moominvalley yet!”

“You need to be there before spring, do you?” asked the Harpist, finally stirred from her lazy observation.

“They hibernate over there, you know,” said the Saxophonist. “There’s little point in arriving in Moominvalley before spring.”

“I expect they’re meeting somebody there,” said the Guitarist, and then looked at Tuffe in the uncomfortable way of adults who did not quite know what to do with children. “Is that right…err, you?”

Tuffe nodded.

“Your Mummy and Daddy?” suggested the Violinist.

“’Nufkin,” they muttered.

“Sorry, dear?”

“Snufkin!” they repeated, a little louder.

“You’re looking for a snufkin?” said the Cellist.

“A woody raised by a snufkin! How novel!” said the Violinist with a laugh. “Funny old world, isn’t it?”

“Your brother had a little thing with a snufkin, didn’t he?” said the Guitarist, gesturing at the Saxophonist, prompting another round of laughter.

“Oh, let’s not talk about him,” said the Saxophonist. “Never understood his appreciation for mammals. They have too few limbs for me!”

“Now, now, we’re _bohemians_! We don’t judge!” said the Violinist. The others laughed, and there was another passing-around of the whiskey. Tuffe simply furrowed their brow, not quite sure what this conversation was about. If you feel much the same, I advise simply moving on for now and revisiting this passage when you’re a little older.

“Besides, the snufkin ran off eventually,” said the Saxophonist. “Don’t stick around long, snufkins.”

Tuffe didn’t like that.

“Nor do we,” said the Harpist lazily. “Besides, your brother goes through them. I doubt it was the poor snufkin’s fault.”

“Ah, still,” said the Saxophonist, and took another drink.

“Well, I’m sure your snufkin is a wonderful snufkin,” said the Violinist, looking at Tuffe encouragingly. “They raised a wonderful woody, after all.”

Tuffe looked at their claws, suddenly feeling very shy.

“Oh, enough of this soppiness. I’m too hungry,” moaned the Harpist, “and you all making yourselves look sweet doesn’t help.”

The grasshoppers all looked rather downcast at that, putting claws over grumbling stomachs as though they’d all just managed to forget about it. Tuffe looked at them all for a long time, taking the bottle from the Harpist and taking another quick sip (they were beginning to quite like it, you see). They then got to their feet, ignoring the slight wince in their ankle, and toddled over to their cradle.

“Oh? What is it?” asked the Guitarist, watching Tuffe pull out blankets and untie the rope. Eventually, Tuffe produced all the cans of beans, every last one they’d taken from Tulippa’s kitchen, and stacked them onto the grass. The grasshoppers had diverted into another odd conversation, so Tuffe smacked a spoon against the top of a tin to regain their attention.

“Hm? Are you offering us dinner, little bean?” asked the Harpist.

Tuffe nodded. It was too much to drag across land anyway.

“Oh, you darling!” cried the Violinist. “I’m starving!”

There was a great kerfuffle as all the bandmembers descended upon the cans, ripping open lids with great screeches and pops, scooping beans into their mouths with their claws and laughing. They all ate together, butter beans and cannellini beans, fat kidney beans in a sauce so spicy it made the Saxophonist cough and demand water, green beans and black beans and pink peas, served heated over the fire and sprinkled with pepper, or raw from the can (as I said, woodies are very resilient little creatures).

After they’d all eaten their fill and left the empty cans scattered in the grass, the Violinist stood on his back legs and took out his violin, playing a cheerful song into the night. The Cellist sang along with the Higgeldy-Piggeldy song, even though that didn’t match the tune at all, while the others laughed, all of them starting to play their own instruments. After much gentle encouragement, Tuffe began to clap along, round with beans and suddenly thoroughly happy.

They would have stayed up all night, as the grasshoppers seemed to be planning to, but after another stolen mouthful of whiskey, they began to hiccup and sway, and found walking from one place to the next had become quite a complicated endeavour indeed.

Scooped up from where they fell on the ground by multiple claws, Tuffe found themselves carefully given water, and next they knew they were falling asleep, curled into the belly of a cello case, velvet soft against their cheek.

****

Snufkin didn’t want to stay Mymble’s house-boat if he could help it. He had allowed her to force a bowl of pea-and-mint soup into his paws, too hungry and wet and tired to protest, sucking it down despite how strongly the Mymble flavoured _everything_. Snufkin was content with simply a little pepper to flavour his dishes. The Mymble, by comparison, but everything she had into every single dish she ever made, as though even her cooking needed to boisterous.

After that, his hair almost dry after being sat by the fire, he tried to make his excuses and leave. He had spied a little lifeboat suspended above the turtle’s back-right fin. The plan was to jump in and row away as quickly as he could.

The Mymble accepted none of this. Laughing, she reminded him how choppy the waters were, the sea was groaning and taking on a new shape these days. The back of a turtle, sweetie, is the safest place to be right now!

So, somehow, Snufkin found himself in the empty children’s room, tucked into the largest bed, his feet dangling bare off the end.

He woke in the early hours of the morning, listening to the unsteady sound of the waves. The Mymble had been right – the sea was changing. Even the sound of it was different. He shivered, the thought a cold chill all the way through him.

He distracted himself by looking about the room – the many beds of different sizes. Some of them just cradles for a little mymble no bigger than a thumb, others towers of bunkbeds, intended for noisy children to scamper up and down all hours of the day. Many poor beds were missing legs, propped up on stacks of books or slumped like hurt dogs in the corner. Others had metal springs bursting through the mattress, gleaming in the moonlight through the lop-sided window.

He supposed in a different life, he would have grown up in a room like this, surrounded by brothers and sisters with hair like his, all of them screaming and grappling with one another. He couldn’t picture it. All he imagined was a different family entirely.

Even through the mess, the wear-and-tear, the drawings on the wall, it was all too obvious who the architect had been. Snufkin would know it in a million years, from a million miles away.

The turtle turned, shaking the room. There was that singing again, low and tuneless and sad, from so very far away.

Time to go.

He hopped out of bed, the sleep-shirt Mymble had pushed on him pooling at his feet. His rucksack was gone, as was his hat, his tent, his fishing rod, and his mouth-organ, and – oh, many things! But he closed the door on his sadness, willing it away. They were things, after all. Just things. Things that would wear out and break and be lost and that was the simple truth of it. He wouldn’t mourn like a silly child over a stuffed dog.

He bundled the clothes Mymble had given him into his arms. He would simply have to carry them in the lifeboat until he got a new rucksack. He would survive by diving for shellfish, making soup from the algae at the top of the sea. It was a good thing, really – he had far too many things, and was grateful the good sea had the sense to claim them.

Keeping this thought in mind, Snufkin exited to the deck.

The singing was louder there, going from a low ringing at bottom of his skull, to something that echoed throughout his bones. In the black dawn, through the choppy sea and the pale mist, there was the charcoal smudge of the Groke, moving slowly, slowly, looking for who knows what. Snufkin paused, resting his paws on the railing, watching her. Was she follow him or not? There she was again, but she still didn’t look at him. Seemed to take no interest.

Soon, the sun would rise, and she would vanish. Where did she go when that happened, he wondered? Was it a new Groke every night, born from whatever little things had died throughout the day, or the same sad, terrible creature? Looking, looking, looking, always waiting and never getting.

The railing stung cold against his paws and he snatched them back.

Well, the Groke was of no matter to him. They were both wanderers whose paths never crossed. Let the moomins of the world concern themselves with grokes.

Holding this thought against any others that threatened to take hold, Snufkin turned.

And promptly fell onto this face.

His foot had caught on something. He sat up, looking back – there was a striped, shiny rock on the deck. Snufkin was almost certain it hadn’t been there before.

“More grokely tricks,” he grumbled to himself, sitting back up. Before he could stand back up, however, something quite extraordinary happened. The rock trembled and from within came four little fins and a head, bearing two large eyes and a fierce beak. The fins flapped in the air, and the head swung to and fro on its wrinkled neck, and through the haze of lack-of-sleep and the Groke’s song in his ears, Snufkin realised the poor animal was stuck on its back.

When dealing with nature, Snufkin knew, one should let every creature make its own way. It was a harsh truth that sometimes little creatures would make a mistake and then struggle and die, becoming food for cleverer or simply luckier beasts. If the little turtle had the poor sense to clamber up to the side of the house-boat, then one could only pity it.

Still. They were rocking and flapping terribly. It was pitiful to point of horror.

“Oh fine then,” snapped Snufkin, and reached forward to flip the turtle onto its belly.

As soon as he closed his fingers around the turtle’s little shell, something rather extraordinary happened. The turtle turned its head and bit Snufkin’s paw. Squeaking, Snufkin dropped the turtle, where it landed again on its back.

This may not seem particularly extraordinary to you or I – anyone sensible knows that a wild animal is likely to bite you if disturbed. However, it was the first time anything like that had happened to Snufkin.

Snufkin stared at the spot of blood rising on his finger, astonished. Little animals were normally tame as canaries around him. He suddenly understood how it could make one feel quite put out.

“Now what was that for?” he said to the turtle, who continued flapping its fins.

He tried to help it up again and got a harsher nip for his troubles.

“Owch! You horrid little grokeling!”

The baby turtle showed no remorse. Before Snufkin could attempt it a third time, a door swung open and the large shape of the Mymble shuffled out in her nightgown, her copper hair loose and falling down her back.

“What is all this noise?” she said, clutching a lantern. “Nuuskamuikkunen, what are you doing out here in the dark, sweetie? You mustn’t be able to see a thing!”

“I can see just fine,” he said, sounding far sulkier than he hoped to. Mymble blinked and then laughed.

“Oh, yes! Silly me!” she said. “I forget you have your father’s eyes, lucky creature.”

Snufkin muttered something unintelligible but still quite rude under his breath.

“Now, what are you making such a fuss of?” he said. Snufkin, feeling rather chastened, simply pointed to the baby turtle, still flapping and twisting.

“Oh, is it that time already!” said the Mymble, with great cheer. She stamped her foot on the deck. “Dear ship, you crafty creature! Your children get here earlier every year!”

“Her children?” said Snufkin.

“Of course,” said the Mymble. “Every midsummer, the dear old girl lays all her eggs on a beach. Come November whatever has survived hatches. And then, as spring gets closer, whatever has survived _that_ make their way to her across the sea. They swim with us for a splendid season. Then, just as it gets to summer, they all line up and give their old mother a kiss on the beak and swim off to their own lives.”

“What’s the point of swimming all the way here if they’re just going to leave so quickly?” said Snufkin.

“I suppose they just think it polite to visit their mother,” said Mymble thoughtfully. Snufkin said nothing.

The Mymble came closer and looked at the turtle rocking to and fro on its back before her gaze slid to Snufkin’s bleeding fingers. She tutted, shaking her head.

“Really, sweetie!” she said, and nudged the turtle on the side with her slippered foot, flipping it onto its front. The baby turtle shook itself, and, without as much the slightest hint of gratitude, jumped off the side of the rail and disappeared into the water. Snufkin watched it go, the tiny shadow whirling under the surface of the water, and then looked back at the Mymble.

“You were grabbing it much too hard, sweetie,” she explained. “A gentle nudge, that’s all that was needed!”

Snufkin clenched his teeth, wishing he at least had his pipe to bite onto. Mymble regarded him a moment longer, looking at the pile of clothes dropped on the deck. Snufkin suddenly felt very foolish. What had he been planning to do, running off in the night with nothing but some ill-fitting clothes, the waves churning and the Groke roaming hungrily over the water? He stood, turning away to look out over the sea and attempt to regain what remained of his dignity.

Without a word, Mymble came to join him by the railing, leaning over to watch the baby turtle darting around its mother’s enormous fins, rippling slowly under the water. The sun was beginning to rise, the sea glittering and the sky warming to a soft pink. The Groke was gone, her song replaced by the cries of sea birds, the distant calls of other ships that had reappeared on the horizon.

“Ah, it’s a splendid day! Now I enjoy the long winter nights, but how wonderful it always is to see the days getting longer,” said the Mymble, breathing in the fresh sea air, her antennae twitching. Snufkin felt his own do the same and put his paw up to still them.

“I didn’t realise spring was so close,” he admitted, the brisk morning air urging him to be honest.

“Oh, I lose track of time too, dear,” said the Mymble consolingly. “Where will you be spending it?”

Where indeed. After two springs standing alone on the bridge, Snufkin wasn’t sure if his heart could bear another. When, he wondered, was it simply time to give up hope?

“Well, you know, I think I’ll be heading to Moominvalley myself!” said the Mymble, before Snufkin could even reply, clapping her paws together. “My eldest sent me the most intriguing missive a while ago – apparently Moominhouse is standing empty these days! Who even knew it was possible. I must see it for myself.”

Snufkin stared up at her. She blinked at him, and then slapped a paw against her cheek.

“Oh! Of course, my daughter said she saw you there!” she said. “Excuse me, would forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on!”

“I suppose you would,” he muttered fiercely.

“Oh well,” she said quickly, and if Snufkin didn’t know better he would swear she looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Why don’t you join me, dear? You’re as fond as the Moomin family as I am, aren’t you?”

Despite the ache deep in his chest, Snufkin nodded his agreement. As much as it hurt to wait, he was certain it would hurt more to never know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is just me bullying Snufkin for 60k words.


	5. The Koi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is my favourite chapter! I hope you enjoy it.

Everything was horrid, Tuffe thought. Their head hurt and their throat was scratchy and dry, and even though their ankle had healed right up, every time they stood up the world shook as though another earthquake was surging underfoot, and they felt certain they would be sick. Everything in the entire world was horrid, from the birds singing in the trees to the bright sun overhead. Yet none of that was as horrid as the empty bottle of whiskey they’d woken up clutching.

“I don’t think we’re responsible people, you know,” said the Violinist mournfully to the others, watching as Tuffe vomited into the grass.

Tuffe had nothing to say. They washed their face in a stream and sat, doing little more than feeling terribly sorry for themselves.

So, even though their ankle was perfectly well, the Harpist still popped them onto her back, giving them a mixing bowl to throw up into if necessary.

“Now you’ve learned your limits,” she said. “I can’t teach you anything better than that.”

Burying their head in the bowl yet again, Tuffe wished such limits could be reached in a less painful manner.

As the morning brightened (and with much gulping down of cold water), Tuffe began to feel their head clear and their stomach settle. The old dirty track below turned into cobbled roads, the trees and plains giving way to little houses with gardens, and then to busy shop fronts. Automobiles trundled past, spitting out clouds of dark smoke, and Tuffe jumped terribly every time one of them boomed or roared a little loudly.

It was their first time in a city. The theatre docked near them, of course, and after a successful production, their brothers and sisters often left the theatre to spend a night merrily among the townsfolk, celebrating their success with music and dancing and many other things besides. However, as nobody ever explicitly invited them, Tuffe always convinced themselves that not only did nobody want them there, but they didn’t want to go anyway. Instead, they would spend the evening looking out of the window, marvelling at how bright and busy a city could be.

The grasshoppers didn’t seem at all uncomfortable. The Cellist and Guitarist were again having another argument (each claimed to have wanted to keep some beans for breakfast and blamed the other for having eaten all of them). The others were discussing some musician Tuffe had never heard of. Still a little queasy, they were content to sit on the Harpist’s back and listen.

“Not far now, little bean,” said the Violinist cheerfully to Tuffe. “The old shop isn’t far from here. We just need to –“

What they needed to do, Tuffe didn’t hard, because a little squeaking voice interrupted:

“Excuse me! Are you a bazz jand?”

The Harpist lifted a leg, finding a little thingum holding a clipboard, staring up at them.

“What’s it saying?” said the Guitarist.

“Now, now, calm down! I speak a little Thingum,” said the Saxophonist. “Yeye wes, we are a bazz jand!”

The thingum jumped up and down, making happy squeaking noises through their proboscis.

“Dlendspid!” cried the thingum. “My tar needs an act bonight! Thanks to that dreadful earthquake, there’ve been cany mancellations.”

“What in the Harvest Queen’s name is happening?” said the Cellist, who had been feeling almost as poorly as Tuffe (and had a worse headache after spending the entire morning arguing).

“The little creature is looking for acts! We may have works, chaps,” said the Saxophonist, and then turned back to the thingum. “We’d be helighted to delp!”

“Funderwul! Come along, ight raway!”

The Saxophonist frowned, and then had a very quick exchange with the little thingum Tuffe couldn’t make heads nor tails of, until the Saxophonist turned to the others, his usual pompous expression grave.

“It seems we need to run off right now – we will need to learn some numbers for tonight, there’s no time to wait,” he said, and then looked awkwardly over at Tuffe. The Violinist clicked his mandibles together, and the Harpist looked back at them. For a moment, nobody wanted to speak.

Making a decision, Tuffe slid from the Harpist’s back, and went to collect their cradle from the Guitarist.

“Are you sure, dear? Will you be quite okay?” said the Violinist. “What about your ankle?”

“Oh, we wouldn’t leave you if we didn’t have to, sweetbean,” said the Cellist, fussing terribly. “We just don’t – we need work, you see.”

“Don’t fuss,” said the Harpist, leaning down to look carefully at Tuffe. “Now you listen to me, darling. Just keep on down this road and it’s the first sweetshop you see. You can manage that just fine, I expect?”

Tuffe looked at the Harpist, and then at the grasshoppers, all looked anxiously down at them. It was funny – it was the same way Tulippa had looked at them, but this time Tuffe felt a little different about it. They couldn’t quite grasp what it was yet. Being looked at had just become a touch easier.

They nodded. The grasshoppers all hopped about, saying how splendid it had been to spend time with them, ruffling their hair, making their goodbyes in the usual noisy, messy, silly way they did most things. And then just as quickly as it happened, they were turning down the other street, the little thingum leading the way, and Tuffe was left standing next to their empty cradle.

At the very least, it was easier to pull along without the cans of beans weighing it down. They made their way down the path, dodging between the legs of busy commuters, pausing to carefully examine every single shop they passed. While it was unlikely that the store with the sculpture of the boot over the door and the shoes in the window wasn’t a sweetshop, it was important to make very sure.

Eventually, after passing up a tailor, a greengrocer, a bookshop, they reached a very glittery shop. It was much more ornate than all the others on the street, with a painting in the corner of the window of a little thoughtful-looking dog. Inside, was a display of some of the most glorious gemstones Tuffe had ever seen – stacks of great emeralds, a fat ruby on a set of scales, many little opals, and even a great glimmering diamond. Tuffe was too small to see beyond the display into the shop itself, but they supposed it would be more of the same.

Tuffe was about to dismiss it entirely, until they caught sight of the sign above the shop, first in looping painted letters:

**Cedric’s**

And then below, in smaller but no less elegant lettering:

_Finest Sweetshoppe_

Puzzled, Tuffe looked up and down the road, as well as up and down the building, but saw nothing else the sign could be indicating. A little nervous, they entered, the bell above the door jingling merrily as they did so. Within was a comfortable little shop, a touch less imposing than the outside. The walls were lined with shelves, full of boxes of the same glittering gems, and in the centre of the floor was a table with a great open chest in the middle of it, spilling out with pearls and gold coins and jewels. It looked like the set-piece they had used for a production about pirates once.

There were many little children running around, clutching striped bags they were filling with all the gemstones, tailed by their weary-looking parents. In the corner was a phonograph, playing a cheery little tune, barely audible over the other children.

Creeping a little closer to the pirate chest, Tuffe looked carefully at the price labels. All in the same scribbly handwriting (it was clearly not the same person who did the sign outside), they said things like:

_Chocolate Gold Coins, 50p per 100g_

_Marzipan Pearls, 25p per 100g_

_Sugar Rubies, 10p per 100g_

Tuffe wasn’t much good with numbers – thinking about them made their head spin –and they hadn’t the faintest idea what the little letters meant. Perhaps it was about the nutritional content. Actors and actresses often worried about that, for some silly reason.

“Do you need any help, dear?” said a woman’s voice.

Tuffe jumped, looking up. At the back of the shop was a little counter, behind which stood a fuzzy, with grey-silver fur and a kindly expression. Trying to look as grown-up as they could manage, Tuffe clambered onto one of the stools in front of the counter, so they could look the Fuzzy in the eyes.

“Excuse me, I have business here,” said Tuffe officially. “Is Cedric home?”

“Pardon?” she asked, ears twitching, and Tuffe knew they had not quite said the right thing.

“I’m going to Moominvalley,” they said, much more shyly this time. “I need directions.”

“Oh! Then you’ll want my son,” she said, eyes brightening. “He’s out right now, but I suspect he shan’t be long.”

“How long?” demanded Tuffe, feeling a bit panicked at the thought of yet more delay. Spring seemed to be coming faster and faster. If they saw a snowdrop poking through the ground, it would be much too late.

“Not long. Oh, now don’t look so put-out!” said the Fuzzy, offering them one of the striped paper bags. “Why don’t you try some of our sweeties while you wait?”

Tuffe stared at the paper bag.

“Oh, I suppose you mightn’t have seen these. They’re very simple dear. All you do is pop what you’d like inside,” she said, turning and taking a little sapphire from a tray nearby and popping it inside. “And then…”

She flipped the bag over. Across the pink-and-white stripes, some text began to appear in neat black letters, as though written by an invisible typewriter:

_Sapphire Gummy………………2g_

Tuffe tried not to look too impressed, but the Fuzzy’s laugh told them they hadn’t done a very good job of it.

“Of course, you can have that one on the house,” she said with a wink. Tuffe wasn’t sure what that meant either – a sweetshop didn’t have any audience seating. Unless she meant the counter seating? City people were very strange.

The Fuzzy left the paper bag in Tuffe’s paws, moving to chat with a parent on the other side of the counter. Tuffe looked inside at the little gummy sapphire, frowning.

They hadn’t had many sweeties in their life. It wasn’t that Miss Emma was miserly and never treated the woodies, not at all! In fact, the grown-ups at the theatre would often get them sweets to congratulate them for a job well done. The problem was that Tuffe was the smallest, and so easy to overlook, they only ever managed to get the sweetie tin when all that was left was a few coconut-flavoured sweets and lumps of black liquorice that nobody really liked. So poor Tuffe decided they didn’t really like sweets, and only liked beans.

After the past few days, however, they were feeling a bit braver and more curious than they used to be. So, they took the little sapphire out of the paper bag and, after summoning all their courage, took a little nibble from the corner.

Instantly, Tuffe’s mouth was flooded with the sweet taste of sugar and blueberries, a lovely tang that spread across their tongue like jam. Eyes very wide, Tuffe took another bite, and another, paws turning sticky and tongue going blue. It was the most wonderful taste they’d ever experienced in their life, and soon they were digging around the paper bag, looking to see if there was perhaps a second.

“You enjoyed that then?” said the Fuzzy, looking over at Tuffe. Tuffe nodded. It was nothing like the horrid bite of dusty liquorice, or a squashed coconut chocolate from the bottom of the tin. The Fuzzy laughed.

“Try as many as you like, dear! Just remember to pop it in your bag first!”

Tuffe hopped down from the counter, paper bag in hand. Fizzing with a sudden burst of energy they didn’t understand, they wanted to try everything in the little shop. The chomped down on chocolate coins, stuffed their mouth with marzipan pearls, sucked on sugar emeralds that turned their tongue green, devoured sherbet opals by the pawful, golden bars made of fudge, and many other wonderful things besides (although they carefully avoided the whiskey truffles).

Eventually, the little door opened, and another fuzzy walked in. Unlike the old Fuzzy in the apron, this one was younger, with chestnut-coloured fur and wearing a suit with a humbug-striped tie. He looked terribly important, so Tuffe could only assume this was Cedric himself.

“Hello, Sniff, dearest! You have a visitor!” said the Fuzzy, gesturing at where Tuffe was sitting by the counter, drinking a glass of lemonade and sucking on a mouthful of jade mints.

Or Sniff, Tuffe supposed. Perhaps Cedric was away.

Sniff looked at Tuffe, startled.

“Are you sure, Mummy?” he said. “I don’t know this kid.”

“They say they want to go to Moominvalley,” she explained, and then went back to attending to Tuffe’s paper bag, pressing buttons on the machine by the counter. The text was so small she needed to use a magnifying glass to read it.

Sniff only seemed to look more surprised at that, coming to join his mother behind the counter.

“Moominvalley? What do you want to go there for?” he asked, pouring himself a glass of lemonade. “There’s nothing interesting out there! Not these days, anyway.”

Tuffe looked Sniff up and down. He looked sort of like the people that visited the theatre and talked very seriously to Miss Emma sometimes. She called them ‘investors’. Tuffe didn’t like investors much.

“I’m meeting someone,” they said, deciding to be mysterious. Or as mysterious one could be with sticky paws and a blue tongue.

“Oh, very well, be obtuse,” said Sniff contemptuously. “I suppose I can help you. After you’ve paid. Mummy, have you finished the little creature's bill?”

Bill?

“Oh yes, dear,” she said cheerfully. “They must have quite a well-to-do family. Here you are!”

Tuffe knew what a bill was. Miss Emma complained of them all the time.

The Fuzzy placed a thin sheet of paper in front of Tuffe, so long it hung off the side of the counter. It was a list of every little sweetie Tuffe had eaten, along with a number followed by a ‘g’ (or in some cases, a ‘kg’), and then another number.

At the bottom, printed in bigger type, was another number.

The problem with bills, Tuffe understood, was that one needed to pay them. And if one didn’t pay them, the police would come and take one to prison.

Looking at the number at the bottom, Tuffe felt their heart speed up.

If they were arrested, they would never find Snufkin, and they were not brave or clever enough to break out of prison as he could!

A little old lady sitting a few stools over from Tuffe glanced over, smiling kindly.

“Oh dear, spent a bit more than our pocket money, have we?” she said, leaning over. “Well, I have a little extra, dearie, just let me have a loo – oh.”

Upon seeing the number, the old lady went very quiet. Without another word, she stepped down from the stool and walked out of the door.

Tuffe stared after her, and then looked up hopelessly at Sniff, eyes very wide.

“Don’t tell me you can’t pay it!” cried Sniff.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” said the Fuzzy. “Can’t you go get your Mummy and Daddy to come and pay?”

Tuffe shook their head, eyes very wide and lip trembling.

“So you don’t have a mummy or daddy…” said Sniff, ears flopping a little. Then he seemed to shake it off, folding his arms. “Well, whether you have parents or not, you can’t just eat so much of our stock and leave us empty-handed! We should call the police, that’s what we should do!”

Tuffe was dangerously close to crying. Sniff looked away, arms still folded, but he looked uncomfortable.

“Oh – well! I suppose there’s only one thing for it,” he said. “You’ll have to work it off. It won’t be fair if I just let you have it for free.”

Tuffe looked up, surprised. They were perfectly able to work – after so many years in the theatre, they were quite good at it – but there was one important issue to consider.

“I need to get to Moominvalley by spring,” they said. Sniff’s tail did a funny little flick at that.

“Well, we’ll be fair,” he said, taking the receipt and a little pencil from his breast pocket, making little marks on Tuffe’s bill. “We’ll keep track and as soon as you’ve worked it off, I’ll help you get to Moominvalley. If you work hard, you’ll get there in time.”

“Are you sure we can’t just let them go?” said the Fuzzy.

“No,” said Sniff sternly. “They won’t learn anything that way!”

Tuffe thought about it for a long moment.

“You promise I’ll get to Moominvalley in time?” they asked.

“Well, I’ll promise you _can_. If you _do_ is up to you,” replied Sniff, offering a paw. “Deal?”

Tuffe looked at the long sheet of paper draped across the counter, and the intimidating number at the bottom. They nodded and, standing on the stool, shook Sniff’s paw.

“Alright, first things first, we need some deliveries done!” said Sniff, puffing out his chest with pride. “We’re very popular, you know. People want them even when they don’t have time to come to the store.”

Sniff took them around the back room of the store, which was very dusty, full of bags of sugar and plastic moulds in the shape of different jewels. On a shelf, was a stack of small boxes, wrapped in brown paper with names and addresses written on the top.

“Your top job is being our delivery-woody,” he said, thrusting a little hat and striped uniform like the Fuzzy had been wearing into Tuffe’s arms. Tuffe, knowing the importance of swift costume changes, began to change as Sniff continued to talk.

“And when you’re not doing that, I want you to be dusting and sweeping and making sure everyone is putting their sweeties in bags before eating them. That’s the number one rule, you know. It took me ages to work it out – if you don’t have a rule like that, people just eat sweeties and you don’t know how much to charge them for it.”

As Sniff spoke, they brought the packages down and thrust them into Tuffe’s arms. The stack of packages, altogether, was almost twice the height of poor Tuffe, and they tumbled forward under the weight immediately. Sniff turned around, ears perking up.

Not wanting Sniff to change his mind about Tuffe working off their debt (and calling the police instead), Tuffe desperately attempted to lift the package up, tail sticking straight out with effort and arms trembling.

“Oh, well that’s no good!” said Sniff.

“I’m fine,” wheezed Tuffe. Sniff shook his head and dug around in a stack of bric-a-brac, dragging out something with a clatter and an ‘A-ha!’. He plopped a little cart in front of Tuffe, with a handle so they could pull it along behind them.

“There! You can do your deliveries in this,” he said, taking the packages and dumping them inside. “Let’s see…your first one…oh, that’s Mrs Mulberry, on Boobleroad, that’s easy. Right! I have work to do, so off you go!”

Tuffe stared up at Sniff.

“I don’t know where Boobleroad is,” they admitted.

“Oh for – Mummy! Mummy!” shouted Sniff, leaning their head out of the door. “Do we have a city map?”

****

The city was enormous. So loud and bright and fast, with so many people. Dizzy from the noise and commotion, Tuffe was certain they would never find their way around. They spent a long while staring at the map, looking at Sniff’s messy handwriting, point out landmarks and common customers. So long, in fact, a police officer came over to check they were alright. No great fan of the police, Tuffe hurried away, without even a single pleasantry. Snufkin would be proud of that, they thought, and that thought buoyed them through the morning.

They found their first stop after an exhausting hour walking in circles – a little old lady who bought sweets to try and entice her grandchildren to visit. She tried to ply Tuffe inside for cookies and tea but, startled by her keenness, Tuffe made a hasty escape.

After that, the job seemed to become much easier. A city, Tuffe thought, was very big, but much simpler than a stage. Both just meant one needed to follow directions. Although in the city, one needed to be prepared for it to take much longer. Tuffe occupied themselves by thinking happily of being in Moominvalley soon, waiting for Snufkin at the old sandpit, ready to go home at last.

One by one, the stack of packages on the little cart became smaller and smalleruntil it became so light Tuffe could run holding onto it.

The last package was quite small – a flat light little box, with an unusual address written on the front:

_The Most Beautiful Koi  
The Finest Pond  
The Grandest House in the City_

Puzzled, Tuffe looked again at the map. There was one part that was marked by a tiny star, and then another one of Sniff’s notes. Unlike his other notes, this one was written in tiny, careful print, as though he had suddenly become shy:

 _The nicest house in town_.

It wasn’t difficult to find their way there. After a while, Tuffe realised they didn’t need to even use the map – if they can to an intersection, all they needed to do was walk down the fanciest looking street. Soon, the paving stones stopped having any cracks or weeds in them, and the roads were even and sleek black, the automobiles no longer spluttering machines, but purring beasts moving sleekly through the roads. Even the lampposts were fancy – they had a rococo design and were polished to a shine, with flowerboxes hanging under them.

Looking down at their silly apron, Tuffe suddenly felt terribly under-dressed. To try and make the best of it, they plucked a little yellow flower from one of the gardens and popped it into their hat.

From the house, the curtain shifted and a curious face appeared at the window. Tuffe hurried along.

The nicest house in town was in the middle of the nicest area in town. Tuffe knew it the second they saw it – a huge building, with ivy climbing the walls, many windows, and a great garden all around it. There was a spiked fence all around it. Naturally, the gates were shut.

Tuffe stared a long while at the buzzer on the wall. If they clambered up the side of the fence, they could reach it. Yet they supposed the package wasn’t for the _house_ – it was for the pond! Would they be happy with such a strange request? Rich folk could be very odd…they were always the most difficult guests at the theatre.

Tuffe looked about and noticed a spot in the fence, hidden behind a shrub, where the metal bars were a little wider. As though some little creature had been wriggling in and out often enough to push them apart.

Leaving the red wagon behind, Tuffe scooped up the package and squeezed themselves through the bars, sucking in their belly and lashing their tail back and forth. With a plop, they fell through, tumbling in the grass. They hopped to their feet, pausing to look across the garden. It was very beautiful – the grass a brilliant green, with not a blade out of place.

They walked aimlessly, looking about at the huge building, the trees and fountains, the topiaries trimmed into odd shapes. It was all very beautiful, but it all felt so still and strange, and the great fences seeming taller every time Tuffe glanced at them. It made Tuffe feel as though they needed to stand very still in the sandpit, holding their tail up high and not making a single peep of noise.

Eventually, Tuffe found a great pond, the sort one saw in a storybook, with lilypads and deep clear water, fish swimming under the surface. Leaning over the edge of the pool, Tuffe watched the koi darting beneath the surface of the water, glimmering in golds, creams and copper-browns.

They were not quite sure how they were meant to pick the most beautiful one. They all seemed very lovely. Perhaps they should just toss the package in and let the fish decide for themselves who was the most beautiful? Then again, that seemed cruel. If one did that to a group of actors, it would cause utter chaos.

Tuffe stood and stared, for a very long time, until a pair of bright eyes rose up from the murk, staring back at them.

“Is that for me?”

Tuffe jumped, as a very pretty mermaid rose out of the water, coming to sit next to her. Her tail was the same dappled colours as the koi, and she had long black hair that fell all the way down her bare torso. Much like the little koi, she had two whiskers, which combined with her great dark eyes, gave her a very cheeky sort of look.

She was as pretty as Tulippa. Perhaps moreso (although that only depends on whether you like the sea or flowers better).

There was no doubt in Tuffe’s mind this was who the package was intended for. However, they suddenly found themselves much too shy to speak, and simply bowed and thrust the package forward with both hands.

The Koi howled with laughter, tipping straight onto her back.

“Oh, you are a card!” she said, flapping her fin this way and that until finally managing to sit her head up. “Now tell me, this isn’t from you, is it?”

Tuffe shook their head, still bowing.

“Aw, shame, you’re cute as a peach pie. But let’s have a look, shall we, doll?” she said, taking the package. She ripped off the brown paper, splashing the end of her tail happily in the water. Inside was a box of chocolates like none Tuffe had seen in the store. The box had been decorated with gold ribbons, and inside were an array of the whiskey truffles, dusted with glitter. The Koi popped on into her mouth, swallowing it whole.

“Mmm-hmm! Even better than last time,” she said, eating another one carelessly. 

A folded piece of had dropped out of the box, landing between them. On it, was a drawing of a fish. It wasn’t very good, but you immediately got the sense that whoever had drawn it had tried very, very hard to make it good.

Tuffe picked it up and presented it to the Koi, who was now sucking chocolate off her fingers, having devoured the entire box in mere moments.

“Ooh, I almost forgot about that! That’s almost as good as the sweeties!” she said, laughing again. “Read it to me, doll. I bet you’ve got a precious little voice.”

Tuffe made a face but opened the paper anyway. Inside, was a very short and altogether dreadful poem, written in the same careful print:

_A pretty fish in prettier water  
Does she know how bad I sought her?  
Oh how I wish I had caught her!  
The prettiest fish in the pretty water_

_From_

_Your Secret Admirer_

Tuffe knew that a professional actor should say all their lines with conviction, even the sloppy ones. After all, even a terrible script could be rescued by a good production.

But…well. There were limits.

“Hm, doll, I can’t quite hear you?” said the Koi, leaning over.

It was no good. She would never hear them. They mutely handed the poem over, looking away in case she still thought this package was from them.

To their surprise, rather than shuddering in disgust, the Koi screamed with laughter, flopping their tail in the water so thoroughly that Tuffe got completely drenched. She rolled back and forth, squealing with delight.

“Oh, aren’t they just a _scream_!” she said, after finally having regained her senses. “Beautiful presents, _and_ a sense of humour! I’m the luckiest girl in the pond!”

Tuffe wasn’t quite so sure about that, but it would probably be rude to say as much.

“You are certain you don’t know who it is?” she said, giving Tuffe a wide-eyed look. “Please, sugarcube, I’m just _desperate_ to know.”

Tuffe shook their head, thorough flummoxed by the entire situation. The Koi deflated, looking fondly again at the little poem.

“Oh well. The mystery is exciting…but it’s not like I can go off and solve it,” she said.

“Why?” asked Tuffe.

“I’m an ornamental koi, doll,” she said with a sigh, propping herself up on her elbow and swaying her fins. “Those fuddy-duddies in that big house keep the gate locked up tight. No, baby, I’m meant to stay put right here and look pretty.”

Tuffe’s sense of unease about the house increased.

“Aww, now look at me bumming you out,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not so bad! Don’t pay me a bit of notice, sugar.”

At the house, a light turned on in one of the many rooms, and Tuffe saw a figure at the window.

“Oh, shoot, there they are. You better go, sugar,” said the Koi. “And thank you for the chocolates!”

Tuffe rushed off, wondering what in the whole great world that was about.

****

It was dark by the time Tuffe returned to the sweetshop, and all the customers had left. It was only Sniff, sitting behind the counter tapping his paws on the wood. As soon as Tuffe returned to the sweetshop, he all but leapt up to greet them, demanding first to know they delivered all the packages, and then, peculiarly, asked over and over about the package to the Koi.

“So you saw her? You saw her get it?” asked Sniff, unsatisfied with a nod. “It’s very important we make sure we know all our customers got their packages. How did she react?”

“She liked the chocolates,” said Tuffe. Sniff grinned, and then stopped himself grinning.

“Good, good! And uh…anything else? Did she uh…did she say anything about anything else?” he said, looking up at the ceiling.

“She thought the poem was funny,” they replied. This was the wrong thing to say entirely – Sniff’s tail and ears drooped so quickly it was as though someone pressed a switch on the back of his neck.

“Funny?” said Sniff. “She’s never found it _funny_ before.”

“Hasn’t she?” said Tuffe, wrinkling their nose.

“All our other delivery-people said she swooned!” said Sniff miserably, setting his head down on the counter. “What was wrong with that one?”

“It wasn’t a very good poem,” pointed out Tuffe, as reasonably as they could. Sniff put his paws over his eyes. Tuffe, feeling very confused but guilty all the same, waddled towards Sniff and tugged on his waistcoat.

“But she liked the truffles very much,” they said. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Suddenly, Sniff leapt up, slamming his paws on the counter.

“Right! I have work to do! Close the store for me, will ya?” he said, and got up to rush upstairs. Suddenly, he turned around, leaning his head back through the door frame. “Oh, Mummy said you can sleep in the back room if you want! Be up bright and early for work tomorrow.”

****

For the next three days, Tuffe lived and worked in the sweetshop. The Fuzzy had cleaned out the back room, making Tuffe a little bedroom from their cradle. If either the Fuzzy or Sniff wondered who Tuffe was, or where they came from, they didn’t say as much in front of them. Perhaps they were respecting their privacy, or perhaps they didn’t care, or perhaps they were both too scatter-brained to question it. Tuffe couldn’t quite decide which.

They learned how to package up chocolates for sale, how to clean sticky things off the floor, how to mop up vomit without throwing up themselves. The Fuzzy made herbal tea and provided them with jam sandwiches for lunch, beans in tomato sauce for dinner (after Tuffe couldn’t stomach her dandelion salad). Sniff watched them carefully, ears twitching as he made little notes on Tuffe’s receipt. Perhaps whittling down the debt or – when Tuffe dropped and smashed a jar – adding to it.

Sniff was a funny creature, Tuffe thought. He was out much of the day, returning tired, but then when he was in the store, would manage to convince parents to buy twice the amount they already had, just by talking and laughing with them. He would whine about Tuffe being slow on delivery, too shy and quiet on the front desk, but then would give them a free bar of chocolate as a treat after lunch.

The oddest part of the job, however, was the daily deliveries to the Koi. Every day, Tuffe took their trolley out to the city, delivering bags of sweeties for children’s parties, chocolates for anniversaries, little cakes to offices, but the bottom of the list was always the same. A little box addressed to the Koi. They would squeeze through the bars, cross the great empty garden, and sit and wait by the pond until she rose out to greet them.

First, she would eat the treat – always boxed up beautifully, presented neatly. Little white chocolate hearts, delicate sugar flowers, tiny truffles with rose petals inside. She’d devoured them utterly gracelessly, sometimes swallowing the foil, chattering the whole time. When the box was empty and tossed aside, she would read the little poem and howl with laughter. The more dreadful it was the more delighted she was.

And finally, she asked the same question.

“Sugar, you have to know who it is,” she said. “Won’t you tell me?”

Now, Tuffe may be little, but they were not stupid. It didn’t escape their notice that Sniff asked about the Koi before anything else, even if he had been out of the shop all day and didn’t even know if he’d made a profit or not. Nor did it escape their notice that the handwriting on the poem was much the same as the handwriting on Tuffe’s little map.

Still, Tuffe knew that a love note was a private matter. As stupid as it was to go to that much fuss and not even write one’s name on it, Tuffe had seen enough terrible fights among actors and actresses to know not to get involved. Even if it felt dreadful to lie.

So, pressing their mouth together as tightly as they could, just in case something threatened to slip out, they shook their head.

The Koi would pout, throwing herself onto her back, but the sulk wouldn’t last long. She was too silly for that, really – always laughing and splashing her tail and chattering about whatever popped into her head. She was very beautiful, but under that she was completely silly and a great deal of fun.

And every day, Sniff would go over Tuffe’s receipt, crossing out items, mumbling and nodding. And Moominvalley grew just a tiny bit closer.

****

On the fourth day, however, the Koi was in a bit of an odd mood. She was already waiting when Tuffe arrived. Stranger still, she wasn’t splashing or laughing or making silly shapes with her whiskers or being her usual silly stuff. When Tuffe asked, however, she just laughed, insisting she was fine. But then she read the poem (awful, as usual), and barely mustered a chuckle.

“So you don’t know at all who my dear little admirer is?” she asked, as she always did. And as they always did, Tuffe shook their head.

Normally, she would laugh it off and ruffle their hair, but today was different. Instead, she smacked her palms hard against the side of the pond, scowling.

“Oh, doll, I don’t know why you won’t just _tell_ me!” she cried. “This is the only joy I get, and I’m helpless to control it! Imagine it - just having to wait and wait for love, and then only getting a mouthful and having to wait and wait some more! It’s miserable!”

Tuffe looked up at that.

“You’re miserable?” they asked. The Koi blushed, all the way to the tips of her whiskers.

“Oh – oh, well that’s not something an ornamental koi should say!” she said, and looked about, before leaning to whisper into Tuffe’s ear. “But just between you and I, I’m rather tired of being an ornamental koi. It’s such a small and lonely pond, and the people in the house are…oh they’re old bores - they just want everything to be still and pretty and neat all the time, it’s dreadful, doll, just dreadful.”

Then she leaned back, took a big deep breath and gave Tuffe a pearly-toothed smile.

“Oh sugar, don’t look so upset! It’s not so bad, honest. I’m just being a big ol’ party-pooper,” she said, with a laugh so fake Miss Emma would have called cut. Tuffe stared at her a moment longer, certain they should say something.

“Suppose you have work to be doing now, doll,” she said. “Toodle-oo!”

She turned and disappeared again beneath the surface of the pond. Tuffe walked back to the sweetshop, turning the whole conversation over and over in their mind, figuring out all the clever and insightful things they could have said. By the time he returned, they’d worked himself up into a foul temper about it. About the unfairness of the Koi in her pool, the futility of love notes with no name, the fact they were working off a debt they never even understood they could get, and snowdrops, starting to bud in the thin grass.

Sniff was scrubbing a half-melted sherbet lemon off the floor, tail whipping to and fro. As soon as the bell over the door jingled, he leapt up, dusting his paws off on his apron.

“Did you make the last delivery?” he asked. “Did our customer get it? Did she have any feedback! It’s very important, you know!”

Tuffe was in no mood. They merely nodded and began heading to the backroom for the night.

“Hey! Where are you going? Did she like the chocolates? The poem?”

Sniff leapt in front of the door, blocking Tuffe’s path.

“She surely enjoyed it today,” he continued, as though Tuffe wasn’t trying to get away. “She can’t have laughed every time!”

“Does it matter?” asked Tuffe, suddenly very sore and tired and wishing desperately to be in bed.

Sniff laughed uncertainly.

“Of course it matters! It matters very much!”

“You don’t sign them.”

“Eh? What? Sign what?”

“Your poems,” said Tuffe, looking down at their feet.

Sniff went red, right from his neck to the very tips of his ears, eyes very wide and whiskers trembling. Tuffe knew right away they shouldn’t have said that, but they couldn’t find it in them to care. So what if it was meant to be a secret? It’s a silly secret if anyone with sense can figure it out!

“That’s – I – I – they’re from a customer.”

“It’s your handwriting.”

“Hmph! Nosy little thing, aren’t you! I wasn’t anywhere near as nosy at your age! Kept to my own business, I did!” said Sniff, growing louder and redder with every word. “What’s it to you if I don’t sign them?”

“I have to lie when she asks,” said Tuffe, feeling as though they were getting smaller and smaller the angrier they got, as though they were folding their entire body tight and tighter.

Sniff tutted, folding his arms.

“You’re too small to understand, that’s the problem,” he said, raising his nose. “What do you know about _romance_? You’re a silly little creature who didn’t even know how to stop eating sweeties, that’s all you are!”

Staring up at him, feeling angrier and angrier, Tuffe did something they had never done to another person.

They kicked him hard in the shin.

“Ow! You rat! You horrid little monster!” shouted Sniff, hopping up and down. Tuffe took the moment to push past into the backroom, slamming the door behind them.

****

Tuffe spent a long while sitting angrily in the back room. They thought briefly about leaving the sweetshop altogether, running out on their debt and finding their own way to Moominvalley.

However, Tuffe was a very honest little creature, and they had agreed to work. Professionalism was very important in the theatre, being in such desperately short supply. They were determined to have plenty of it.

So, they would stay. Perhaps they would apologise to Sniff tomorrow. Kicking someone was a terrible thing to do. They felt horrid immediately afterwards, of course, but they had already done it at that point.

They looked at the dinner Fuzzy had left them until it went cold, half-heartedly pushing beans around the plate and nibbling at the corner of one. They were contemplating climbing into the cradle for the night, when the door creaked open, revealing a brown paw.

“May I come in?” said the Fuzzy. In response to Tuffe’s silence, she opened the door and stepped in. She was dressed in her nightgown, with her ears under a cap, and she looked more troubled that Tuffe had ever seen her.

Tuffe supposed this was it. They had kicked the kind Fuzzy’s mostly-kind son, and now they were either going to increase their debt threefold and keep them here forever, or they were going to push them into the street empty-handed. 

The Fuzzy didn’t say anything, just looked at Tuffe for a long moment.

“It’s very bad to kick people, you know,” she said finally, “but I’m sure you didn’t mean it.”

They had meant it quite a lot, really, but they didn’t want to say that.

“Sniff would like to talk to you. Do you want to talk to him?”

Tuffe shifted and gave the barest minimum of a nod. The Fuzzy looked around behind her.

“Button, come along now, I told you they’d want to talk,” she called. Sniff’s nose popped up behind her.

“Are you sure? They hardly talk to begin with!” said Sniff, frowning over his mother’s shoulder.

“Oh, some folk just keep their words inside, that’s all,” said the Fuzzy gently, stepping aside to let Sniff in. He stood for a second, wringing his tail between his paws.

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” said the Fuzzy. “I have some new buttons to organise anyway!”

The Fuzzy left, closing the door behind her, leaving Sniff and Tuffe staring at one another, neither sure what to say or when to say it.

“You kick really hard, you know, for such a little creature,” said Sniff. “But I was little once, too, and hated being told so just as much. I think I’d have done the same.”

He sat down on the edge of a crate of fudge.

“You were right though. It was my poetry. And my gifts!” he said, and then cleared his throat. “You, when I first came to this city with Mummy, I worked as a delivery-boy, just like you. And one day, delivered a package to that huge, beautiful house! You’ve seen it, haven’t you? The grandest house I ever saw! If I lived somewhere like that, even this little cupboard would be a great big hall, with chandeliers and painted windows!”

Sniff seemed to light up talking about the big house, as though he didn’t feel the strange sense of suffocation Tuffe did upon visiting the house.

“It’s big,” they agreed.

“Yes, yes, exactly!” said Sniff excitably, kicking his feet. “And I thought, oh, one day, I’ll have a house like that, for me and Mummy and for Daddy when he finally comes home! I’ll have entire rooms for jewels and clothes, and never want for anything, no siree!”

Tuffe hummed.

“Well, I told the owners all this, but I’m not sure they heard me. People didn’t pay much attention to me then, you see, I wasn’t important enough,” continued Sniff, sighing. “But as I was leaving, I saw the most beautiful creature in the pond! She was swimming around and laughing and she was the prettiest thing I ever saw.”

“Did you talk to her?” asked Tuffe.

“Err, well, no,” said Sniff, ears drooping. “Why would I? She wouldn’t want to talk to me anyway, not back then!”

Sniff shook his head, folding his arms and leaning back with a self-satisfied air.

“So, on that day, I swore, I’d become the kind of person with a big house and beautiful clothes, and then I’d announce my intentions,” he said. “I’m madly in love with that koi, you see.”

Tuffe made a face.

“No, you’re not.”

“What!” cried Sniff, sitting up, ears flapping with outrage. “Who are you to say that!”

“You aren’t, though,” said Tuffe, reasonably. “You don’t talk to her.”

“So? I’ll do that when I’m good and ready!” he said. “I’ve been working my way up to it! I need to afford a proper gift before I can do that. You can’t just talk to a girl like that with fudge and chocolate alone, you know.”

“She doesn’t even like the big house and the fine people in it,” replied Tuffe.

“That doesn’t mean she’ll like a little house and shabby people!” insisted Sniff, curling into himself and bringing his knees up to his chest. “She’ll think me small and silly, as it is.”

“ _She’s_ silly,” he said.

“How dare you! She’s the loveliest creature on this earth!”

Tuffe sighed. Sniff wasn’t listening at all. The Koi was lovely, but she was also very silly, they didn’t understand why she couldn’t be both at the same time. Sniff didn’t know her at all, and the Koi didn’t know him, but they were both so obsessed with one another. Tuffe swore they would never become so strange, even when they grew up.

“Well, I suppose it’s nice to finally tell someone all this. I’ve never even told Mummy, you know,” he said, fishing a block of fudge from the crate and pulling it in two, handing half to Tuffe. Tuffe looked at it critically.

“Oh, it’s not going on your bill, just eat it!” cried Sniff. “Why are you so keen to be away anyway? You’re actually not a bad worker. You could – well, you could just stay here.”

Sniff looked away, as though embarrassed.

“We could start paying you, properly, I mean. If you earned a little money, you could make this room nice! We could even teach you how to work the till. That’s good fun – handling the money and pressing all the buttons and hearing all the fun _ding_ s. I think you’d like that,” he continued.

Tuffe shook their head.

“Moominvalley,” they repeated.

“Oh, why do you want to go to that crummy old valley? There’s nothing fun out there these days,” said Sniff. “Even the Moomins are gone, I heard.”

“’Nufkin.”

“Huh? Snufkin?” said Sniff.

Tuffe nodded.

“That’s why you want to get there before spring,” said Sniff. “I suppose it’s always Snufkin, isn’t it. I don’t know if he ever goes to the Valley these days, you know. Last I saw him he just told me some lousy story about his mother’s aunt, or some other nonsense. He doesn’t even speak to his mother, I can't imagine how he'd know her aunt.”

Tuffe stared at Sniff, eyes very wide. It had been such a long time since they’d heard anyone else talk about Snufkin.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I don’t know where he is,” he said, scowling. “I don’t think he liked me anyway. Maybe he used to. But he only really liked Moomintroll, in the end.”

That didn’t sound like Tuffe’s Snufkin. Their Snufkin liked everyone – he liked the woodies, even after they’d just met, and even when they’d all been behaving terribly. Perhaps Sniff had known a different Snufkin.

“Hmph!” said Sniff. “I suppose if you want to go to Moominvalley, I can’t stop you. Are you certain?”

Tuffe looked into Sniff’s eyes and nodded, just once, but very seriously. Sniff saw at once that they meant it.

“Right then,” he said, with a sigh. “Well, we’ll look at your debt tomorrow, see how much you have left.”

****

As they fell asleep, Tuffe thought a lot about the Koi and Sniff and the empty Moominvalley and the Snufkin that only liked a Moomintroll and the Snufkin that liked everyone. They had strange dreams, about golden fish swimming in circles around a cage, snufkins with no faces, theatres filling with water. In the way of dreams, they felt terribly portentous at first but vanished as soon as Tuffe tried to recall the details.

The next morning, Sniff showed Tuffe how to use the till. There were no deliveries that morning, and the few customers that came in were those old enough not to be sick on the floor. Tuffe had to admit Sniff was right – using the till _was_ fun. Even being no good at numbers or speaking didn’t matter – all Tuffe had to say was ‘Thank you sir’, and put in the numbers exactly as they were written, and then give back the number that came up on the till. They liked the clack of the buttons as they pressed down, the way the drawer sprang upon and had to be pushed shut, like a set prop.

Sniff left after breakfast, speaking mysteriously of errands he had to run. The Fuzzy was off with her knitting group, leaving Tuffe in charge of the shop for the very first time.

It would almost be nice to stay, they thought. Just as perhaps it would have been nice to stay among the tulips, or with the grasshoppers. Perhaps there was a little Tuffe who had stayed with Tulippa, helping save the flowers from the quake. Or one that stayed with the grasshoppers, travelling on their backs and learning to play the flute.

But they couldn’t, of course. They would never stop wondering about Snufkin if they stayed. They would go as soon as they could, leaving yet another version of Tuffe behind them.

Sniff returned not long after lunch. He had a tired look about him, doffing his hat politely at the only customer in, an old woman carefully contemplating the toffee selection.

“So, you didn’t burn the shop down while I was gone!” he said (a tired sort of joke Tuffe had heard from many adults over the years and didn’t see the point of pretending to laugh at). “Have we had many customers today?”

Tuffe thought about how many people had been through.

“Wednesday matinee showing,” they said finally.

“Er, right. I see. Good to know,” said Sniff, nodding as he joined Tuffe behind the counter.

“Right, let’s take a look at your debt,” he said, taking out Tuffe’s bill from a little drawer and removing the pencil from his pocket. He went through it carefully, saying things like “Hm, I see” and “Yes, yes”. Tuffe watched quietly, sensing that Sniff rather wanted an audience for this.

“Well, well! It turns out you haven’t just wiped out your debt – now we owe you a little money!” said Sniff, showing Tuffe the bill. Every item had been crossed out, right down to the very bottom. This didn’t seem quite right to Tuffe – they were certain they hadn’t even crossed out half of the items yesterday.

“Really?” asked Tuffe.

“Not much, mind you, just a little,” said Sniff. “So I went and got you something, just to er, even it out.”

Clearing this throat, he fished inside his pocket and brought out a little envelope. On the front was _To the little creature_ , in Sniff’s clumsy attempt at calligraphy. Tuffe untucked the envelope, pulling out a little slip of glossy paper. It looked almost like a theatre ticket, only much more official. Printed across in big letters, it said:

_CHILD TICKET_

_CITY TO FILLYJONK HILLS_

_ONE WAY_

“That’s as close as I could get you to Moominvalley, there’s no train station there,” said Sniff quickly. “You’ll have to go straight north from there, through the woods, and you’ll be in Moominvalley in no time. Now don’t lose your ticket - it was expensive, and I shan’t buy you another!”

“You said I’d only earned a little extra,” pointed out Tuffe, too stunned by the gesture to say much more.

“Don’t fuss! Always complaining, you are!”

Tuffe shook their head and began thumping their tail very happily on the ground, bouncing on their heels. They were so delighted they wanted to hop and spin around but settled for grabbing onto Sniff’s leg and giving a squeeze.

“Er, right, okay,” said Sniff, looking as startled at that as he had at being kicked. Tuffe let go and stepped away, still clutching the ticket very tight.

“Well then! I suppose I have to find someone else to do my deliveries!” he said. “They all keep striking out to seek their fortunes.”

Tuffe blinked up at him, a plan slowly forming in their mind.

“Is there one to the Koi today?”

“Ah, well, yes, I was – I had something prepared but…”

“I’ll take it.”

“I won’t pay you,” warned Sniff. Tuffe shrugged. Sniff eyeballed him a moment longer but then relented, shaking his head.

“You’re a funny little creature, you know that, don’t you! Very well, here,” he said and took another small package. “You better hurry if you want to deliver it before your train!”

Tuffe nodded. That would be easy. They only needed to collect a small handful of things first, after all.

****

Even though Tuffe only had one package to deliver that afternoon, they took the trolley with anyway, packing their cradle onto it.

The walk to the big house had gotten faster and faster over the last few days – now Tuffe didn’t need to hesitate at any crossings, even glance once at the map. They followed their paws, dragging the rumbling trolley behind them.

They looked up at the grand house through the grate. All the lights were off and the net curtains closed, as always. The people inside were quiet, only appearing if one of the rooms lit up, a silhouette staring scornfully out at the world beyond. Tuffe had still never seen them set a toe outside.

The gate was locked tight, a chain keeping it closed. There was the buzzer on the wall, dusty with disuse.

It is very scary, doing the right thing when it could get you in a great deal of trouble. Standing there looking up at the gate, paws trembling and sweat pooling between their shoulder-blades, Tuffe felt certain that they couldn’t manage it.

Snufkin would do it, Tuffe thought. Snufkin wouldn’t hesitate for a moment.

With that thought in mind, Tuffe grabbed the hammer from the trolley and climbed onto the gate. Tangling their tail in the bars to keep them upright, they heaved the hammer upwards with bow paws and smashed it down on the chain. The hammer hit the metal with a clang, the chain shattering and dropping to the floor in bits. Tuffe tumbled off the side of the gut as it creaked open.

There was no further time to hesitate, Tuffe grabbed the trolley and dragged it inside. No lights had come on in the house yet, but surely there would be soon. The people inside would be talking to one another, saying things like “Did you hear that?” and “We certainly must check”, and then the lights would come on and those silhouettes would be in the window, staring out in their strange, cold way.

They reached the pond, dropping the handle for the trolley and leaving it beside the water. The trolley was just the right size, they thought, for one person to climb onto and make her escape with. If that was what she really wanted. And if she was brave enough to do so.

There was one last step, of course.

Carefully, using just the very tip of their claw, opened the package addressed to the Koi. Ignoring this chocolate, they unfolded the note.

Taking the pencil from the pocket of their uniform, they crossed out _Your Secret Admirer_ and wrote simply _Sniff, who runs Cedric’s Sweetshoppe._

Perhaps they could love each other for real, perhaps it could only be a story, Tuffe didn’t know. They just couldn’t stand to let it continue to be nothing.

Putting the package back together, Tuffe left it on the trolley. They grabbed their cradle and ran as fast as they could, not looking back to see if the Koi had emerged.

Up in the great silent house, all the lights had turned on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was really hard not to break my own naming conventions and title this 'Tuffe's Delivery Service'. Meanwhile, Tuffe has unknowingly hurled Sniff right into the plot of _The Shape of Water_. 
> 
> Sorry for lack of Snufkin, but next chapter is a full Snufkin chapter! Lots of Snufkin and Mymble and gay pining.


	6. The Turtles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snufkin-only chapter! Local depressed little man hangs out with his mum, gets misgendered, and makes some horrible decisions. Also a cameo from a very important character.
> 
> Warning for animal death.

I am sure you would like to know what Snufkin was doing in the days Tuffe spent working in the sweetshop. He is the other half of our story, after all, and the half that you all know better.

For Snufkin it was a strange few days. He had spent very little time with the Mymble over the years. And of that time, he had always been one in dozens of children, all of which were much smaller than him, shouting and playing and all vying for their mother’s attention. Once could barely recognise the Mymble without her horde, and it came as a great surprise to Snufkin that without them, the Mymble was a much quieter presence. She laughed and chattered merrily, yes, but she was also content to sit and knit or read her novels (either bloody or saucy or a bit of both, and either way much too risqué for Snufkin’s tastes).

The first day at sea together was spent in quiet. Snufkin sat on the edge of the house-boat with his legs dangling over the edge of the railing, smoking from a borrowed pipe and contemplating the way the vast sea around him looked much the same as before, but had, by all accounts, changed shape entirely. The Mymble busied herself with tasks around the house-boat, sweeping and tidying. She tried to comb his hair but retreated the second he moved out of her grip. She caught fish for supper and Snufkin gutted them at the small kitchen, frying them off in a pan with sea salt and pepper, a puff of red powder he recognised as paprika. They ate in quiet outside, not quite together but not quite apart. But Snufkin was certain that she kept glancing at him.

The Groke sang loudly and endlessly that night, but Snufkin didn’t even catch a glimpse of her through the fog.

****

The second day, Mymble came to him with a request.

“Sweetie, I’ve been meaning to pull apart all the old beds in the children’s room for an _age_ now. Would you spare a paw?”

“You’re certain you won’t need them again?” asked Snufkin.

At this, the Mymble laughed, and touched her antennae, which had curled up like two little conch shells on her forehead.

“Oh no, not me,” she said, and then looked at Snufkin’s own antennae, still butter yellow and fresh as daisies. “Unless you do, of course.”

“No, of course not,” snapped Snufkin, flushing. The Mymble roared with laughter and began disassembling a tiny headboard.

“Wouldn’t you be better off giving them away to other families next time you make port?” asked Snufkin.

“Oh, no mother with sense would lay her children to rest in these!” she said, laughing. Snufkin snorted contemptuously, which she ignored with the grace only a mother of many teenagers could summon.

However, Snufkin came to understand why the Mymble didn’t even consider giving the beds away. They all seemed to be made from odds and ends – bits of driftwood and tin-cans, all nailed together. Most of them were sagging in the middle, no doubt broken by some over-eager mymblet bouncing on the bed.

“None of them are the same,” he grunted, having spent a long while stamping apart a bedframe made of toy cars and a great deal of enthusiastically applied glue.

“Of course they’re not, dear!” said the Mymble, un-weaving a bed made of straw. “Even little ones from the same litter want their bed to be unique.”

“The little mymbles make these _themselves_?”

The Mymble gave Snufkin a very strange look, as though he had just asked if fish could breathe underwater.

“Naturally,” said the Mymble. “Little mymbles are very independent! They pop out and that very night they build themselves a little bed, out of whatever is around. Of course, it’s barely a nest, but they get more elaborate over time. It’s very important, a mymble’s bed.”

“I’ve heard that, but I never knew what it meant,” said Snufkin wonderingly.

“I don’t think they meant this, sweetie.”

Snufkin looked at her blankly, but she just serenely tore a mattress in half and said nothing more on the matter.

It was satisfying work, smashing all the little beds and pulling them apart. They pulled them to pieces and stacked them in piles – wood that could be used for fires, bits and pieces that could be remade as lures or other useful bits and bobs, and then scrap they would do away with next chance they got. Throughout though, Snufkin found his paws slowing now and then, smoothing over a lop-sided headboard, a pillow with a little heart or flower stitched into the corner.

Would one be familiar? Was there one he put together, with clumsy paws, too small to grasp? Each new bed he held his breath, expecting some rush of nostalgia, some blurry memory of sitting on an unfamiliar floor.

No, naturally, of course not. If there had ever been a little bed, it was gone long before this house was even built. And he was sure he would at least remember something of it if there had been.

Eventually, all but the biggest bed had been pulled apart. The Mymble almost pulled that one apart too, until Snufkin caught her elbow and reminded her that, in absence of a decent bedroll, _he_ still needed a place to sleep. So, they shuffled the piles of pieces into corners and moved the biggest bed into the centre of the room.

“This was my eldest’s bed,” said the Mymble, patting the headboard, which had been painted a dainty pale pink. There was a rose painted on the centre, lovely enough Snufkin imagined even Snorkmaiden would have been content with it.

“Might she visit?” asked Snufkin anxiously. He had stayed an entire month with the Mymble’s oldest daughter two years ago, practically living in the same house, and they had barely exchanged a word. He had occasionally caught her staring at him, usually perched on countertop or railing, her huge eyes following him with catlike interest. When most people were caught staring, they would look away, embarrassed, but not so with her. Instead, if he met her gaze she just smiled, enormously, and tilted her head. It was as though she expected him to say something. It was made him feel very nervous.

“Oh, I doubt it,” said the Mymble. “I think she’s left for good, that one.”

“How does one know that?”

“Hm? Sorry, sweetie?”

“That someone’s left for good,” he said, swallowing. “That they’re not just…getting away for a little while.”

“How does anyone know anything,” said the Mymble, laughing as though it was all jolly good fun. This did not make Snufkin feel any better.

Later, as Snufkin went to sleep in that same bed, he noticed a drawing on the skirting board, clumsily painted into a corner. A little moomin, a snork with a yellow fringe, and…

Snufkin turned over, pulling the comforter over his ears, the Groke warbling over the sloshing waves.

****

The third day, Snufkin woke to the smell of pancakes and coffee, as well as the sound of the muffled radio, the Mymble singing tunelessly along in mis-pronounced English. There was another turtle on the decking as Snufkin emerged. Just as Mymble had predicted, they had started appearing. Somehow or another, they always seemed to make their way up to the deck and get themselves stranded. Snufkin nudged them with his foot, just as Mymble had, and they would right themselves and waddle off the side.

Any attempt to touch them with a paw, or even give them more with a nudge, was met with the same snapping dismissal. Even if it seemed they were hurt and could benefit from closer inspection, there was nothing Snufkin could do. He decided that morning to not look too closely at them – simply nudge them upright and walk on, that was the best thing.

“Good morning, Nuusu!” greeted the Mymble, cheerful even when still in her hairnet and nightgown. It took Snufkin a moment to realise she meant him.

It was not as though he disliked the name the Mymble and the Joxter had given him. He had just never had it long enough to get used to it.

She flipped a pancake onto a plate – missing and letting it land on the floor. She let it sit there for a moment, looking at it as though waiting for something, and then laughed and scooped it up, popping it into her own mouth.

“Waste not want not, sweetie,” she said, at Snufkin’s expression, and then slid a pancake onto a plate for him. “There’s butter and jam in the icebox, maybe some blueberries, I can’t recall if I ate the last. Coffee in the pot – no, dear, the silver, not the bronze, that’s the ticket.”

It wasn’t an easy task, pouring coffee on a rocking ship, less so when that ship was on the back of a sea turtle, prone to sudden turns and dips as she played with her little children. By that morning, he was beginning to get the grip of it. Although he wasn’t sure he could manage it in heels like the Mymble did with such ease.

He wiggled his bare toes on the cold wooden floor. He would need new shoes soon. The Mymble had given him all the leftovers to rummage through, but he didn’t like any of them. They were all men’s shoes – too big and clunky. Her shoes were no better – there were just straps and frills and narrow heels. All either too much or too little. None were right.

He tore off a chunk of pancake and swallowed it without tasting it.

“Today,” said the Mymble, coming to sit opposite him with her own plate stacked full of pancakes and berries, “I would quite like to paint the bedroom. Last time I stopped at the shore, I got hold of some lovely paint – duck-egg blue, quite fetching! – but it’s terribly boring doing such chores alone.”

“I see,” said Snufkin, adding cream to his coffee. “The skirting boards will need done too.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so. I’ve got some white paint. Won’t that be boring, though?”

Snufkin shrugged.

“It’s your house,” he said.

The Mymble stared at him, smiling. He fidgeted.

“Well,” he said, when the silence had dragged on so long that _someone_ needed to say _something_ , “if you need help…”

“How sweet of you to offer, dear! I’d appreciate it.”

The morning was spent painting the walls. There were some brushes and rollers that had survived the last batch of mymblets. They decided they would primarily concern themselves with the walls and consider the skirting boards and carpet at a later date. They tossed a sheet over the bed, the Mymble brought in her little radio, and it was merry enough work.

Snufkin was just touching up a corner when there was a great noise from outside, like a horn being blown. The Mymble dropped her roller immediately.

“Oh, there’s another ship nearby, what fun!” she said and ran out of the room. Scowling, Snufkin followed her out. There was indeed another ship – a cargo ship, by the look of it, and there was a handful of men out on the deck, all looking at the floating house, some of them laughing. It made Snufkin shrink back against the wall, but the Mymble merely leaned over the railing and waved.

“Ahoy!” she cried. She gave a wave and then grabbed the stick that lay propped up against the house, prodding the turtle’s fins. “Good afternoon! May we come aboard?”

The men roared with laughter at this but seemed to agree all the same. They slowed their ship, preparing to dock.

“Must we?” asked Snufkin, trying to make himself invisible.

“Oh, we mustn’t do anything! But it looks like terrible fun,” she said. “And _sailors_ , you know.”

Snufkin huffed.

“Oh, cheer up dear,” she said, quickly checking her reflection in her hand-mirror. “I’m sure there’ll be one about your age too.”

“I don’t care if there is!” he spluttered.

“And anyway, I used the last of the flour on the pancakes,” continued the Mymble, as though Snufkin hadn’t said anything.

“Please yourself, I shan’t be joining you,” he said. She gave him an odd look, as though trying to take the measure of him for the first time.

“Are you quite sure? It will be a splendid time, I’m sure.”

He folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, wishing he had his hat to disappear under.

“Oh, well,” said the Mymble. She sounded terribly confused - as though it had never occurred to her anyone would have cause to decline a party with perfect strangers. “If you’re quite sure. Mind the house, I won’t be long.”

The other ship’s horn sounded yet again.

“Oh, I _do_ hope they have some brandy,” said the Mymble. “I haven’t had good brandy in weeks.”

****

That night, Snufkin watched the baby turtles swimming, bare feet dangling above the waves. He could hear the party – the music, the laughing, voices chattering. When he was smaller, he would have leapt at the chance, would have played mouth-organ for any audience, late into the night. He felt its absence in his pocket.

He couldn’t see that Groke that night, nor hear her song, but he felt her cold biting through him all the same.

****

On the fourth day, there was a stranger in the kitchen for breakfast. He was a tall man, gutting a fish with a great deal of showmanship but pathetically little skill. Mymble was at the table, an odd expression on her face. He had rather expected her to look like the cat that caught the canary, so to speak, but instead, she was frowning, tapping her fingers hard against the table.

“Oh!” said the stranger, upon spotting Snufkin in the doorway “Er…why, hello there.”

Snufkin stared at him.

“Oh, yes, you said something about children, didn’t you? Hello there little one,” he said, and then glanced at Snufkin’s antenna. “Oh, well perhaps not so little. She –“

“He,” interrupted the Mymble, so quickly Snufkin didn’t even have time to open his mouth.

“Er, yes, of course. Hard to tell with mymbles. Well, he’s all grown-up, isn’t he?” said the stranger, and then smiled a touch too hard, staring at Snufkin as though he was an exotic animal in the zoo. Suddenly, he clapped his paws together, making both Snufkin and the Mymble jump.

“How about I make us all my special morning smoothie!” he said. “A healthy blend, you know, much better for you than coffee. Helps with weight loss too.”

“How kind of you! I’m sure we’d be delighted,” said the Mymble, “although aren’t your crewmates missing you?”

The stranger didn’t seem to hear this, just continued cooking and humming.

His grilled fish was horrid – completely tasteless. Snufkin had suggested adding some pepper but the stranger had simply _ruffled his hair_ , as though this was some precious suggestion by a toddler who didn’t know their tail from their elbow.

Snufkin suddenly admired the baby turtles’ tendency to bite.

Worse than the fish was his special drink. It was some foul concoction of herbs and grasses, all blended into a watery pulp. After one sip, the Mymble and Snufkin glanced at one another and subtly tossed the rest onto a nearby houseplant.

“Lovely,” said the Mymble, smacking her lips in a passable impression of someone enjoying themselves. “Now, we have a little DIY work to do.”

“Oh, what sort of work, my loveliest?” asked the stranger, grabbing onto the Mymble’s paw. She pried her paw away.

“Painting, you know, horribly boring.”

“Oh, I’m a dab hand at DIY. I shall be happy to assist!”

“Er, well…”

The stranger immediately bustled over to the bedroom, immediately taking the tin of white paint and beginning to paint over the blue they’d started on yesterday. The Mymble looked utterly flummoxed by this. They tolerated this for a while, both retreating to the kitchen, but upon return found the man was still there.

“Well, I suppose you must be getting along!” she said loudly, as she managed to herd him out of the bedroom.

“Oh, darling, there really is no hurry!” said the stranger. “In fact, why don’t I fix us some lunch?”

“Very kind of you,” said the Mymble, in a tone usually reserved for threatening to poison someone’s tea. “I just need a little word with my son here, family business.”

“Oh,” said the stranger, looking very serious. “Of course. I shall be in the kitchen when you’re ready, most beautiful one.”

He leaned up for a kiss and she slammed the door on him. With the door firmly closed, she turned on Snufkin, crouching down to whisper at him.

“Oh dear, what is happening?” she asked.

“What do you mean what’s happening? What did you expect?” snapped Snufkin, scarcely able to believe his ears.

“I just don’t understand why he won’t leave,” whispered the Mymble, shaking her head. “I hate to hurt a chap’s feelings, but I feel ‘Get lost, buster!’ might be our last hope.”

As much as Snufkin would like to say as much to the fellow, he couldn’t help but make a face at that.

“Are we sure that’s wise?” he said carefully.

From the kitchen, they could hear the stranger’s merry, tuneless singing. The Mymble sighed.

“Oh, no, I know. The clingy types turn nasty if one’s too forward with them,” she said and groaned, looking up at the ceiling. “Chaps never used to hang around like this! I don’t know why it’s so hard to get rid of them these days.”

“What do you mean?” asked Snufkin, in the same low, urgent tone. “What did you used to do to get rid of them?”

“Why, nothing! I never even had to drop a hint,” she said, shaking her head. “They’d usually not even make it through breakfast. Are men just needy these days?”

Snufkin thought for a second.

“I think I have an idea,” he replied.

“Oh, thank goodness. I’m really not the inventive type, you know,” she said. “What is it?”

“It will be embarrassing to say if it doesn’t work,” said Snufkin. “Let me try, first.”

With his plan set out, Snufkin headed to the kitchen, nudging a baby turtle upright on the way. The stranger had already helped himself to the Mymble’s apron (even though it went right down to his toes and looked frankly absurd) and was cooking something that smelled an awful lot like the ‘healthy’ drink from the morning.

“Oh, hello there,” said the stranger, speaking as though to a small and easily startled animal. “Did you have that conversation?”

“Oh yes, we –“ began Snufkin, but this chap seemed incapable of listening to a full sentence from anyone but himself.

“Good! Now I’m sure it was very difficult to hear, but I’m really not trying to replace your Daddy, you know?” he said.

“I - excuse me?”

“I know, but I think this will be a very good thing for your Mummy,” he said. “She’s been very lonely, you know, and has been through so much. She needs a man in her life.”

Snufkin startled at that. It was hard to imagine Mymble saying such things, especially not to some chap she met at a party and shared some brandy with.

“Did she say that?” he asked.

The stranger paused.

“Well. No. But come now,” he said. “A woman on her own with a child, no husband in sight! Some horrible tragedy must have befallen her!”

“Oh yes,” said Snufkin drily. “Nobody would choose to live like that, I suppose.”

“Quite right, quite right,” said the stranger. Snufkin was beginning to believe this man was as dense as a damp sandcastle, and not even half as interesting.

“So! I know this is a very difficult time in your life – transitions, and all that – but believe me, it’s for the better.”

“Oh yes,” said Snufkin, as sweetly as he could muster. “I know. I’m sure all my brothers and sisters will be excited to meet you when we get back to land as well.”

The stranger looked up from the kale he was mashing.

“Brothers and sisters?” he said. “And – ah, they’re about your age, are they?”

“Oh no,” he said, widening his eyes. “They’re all much younger. They’re very noisy, you see, so we can’t bring them on sea voyages. They frighten the turtles and just spend all their time trying to push each other overboard.”

“Er,” said the stranger, “is that so? Well that’s – er, that’s splendid, of course! And…how many are there, exactly, of these little darlings?”

Snufkin started counting on one paw. And then went to the other. And then returned to the first. The man’s face grew paler and paler.

“Fifty, I think,” he said finally.

“Fifty?” said the stranger, goggling.

“I know, it’s a small family,” said Snufkin, having too much fun to stop. “I’m sure mother would like another litter soon.”

There was a muffled giggle, and he caught a glimpse of the Mymble peering in through the door.

“Er, I – hm!” said the stranger, pulling off the apron as though it was on fire. “You know! I think I do have some work I should really finish up on the ship.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, yes! I have a very important job! It had quite slipped my mind!” he said, rushing out the door and tumbling over a baby turtle on his way to the lifeboat, getting a bite on the ankle for his troubles. He shook it off and threw himself into the lifeboat, casting himself into the sea.

“Oh darling, leaving so soon?” cried the Mymble, stepping out from behind the door. Snufkin came to join her at the railing.

“Yes, farewell my sweet!” he shouted, not even pausing his frantic rowing long enough to wave.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for supper?” she shouted, prompting Snufkin to hide a snort in his paws.

“I’m sure we’ll meet again, er! Someday!”

They watched him go, rowing his furious way back to the other ship, which had long set off without him. Meeting each other’s gaze, they finally broke, collapsing into helpless laughter.

“Oh dear! What an ass,” said the Mymble, after she’d finally managed to catch her breath. “He really thought he was doing me a favour, didn’t he?”

Snufkin shrugged, huffing out a breath.

“I suppose he’d rather make up stories about you,” he said, “than actually get to know you.”

The Mymble hummed at this.

“Well, the good news is, we have enough flour to make a cake now,” she said, briskly moving the subject along. “I think hazelnut and brandy cake would be a fine supper.”

****

Snufkin had never taken the Mymble to be a good baker, but it turned out she had a great talent where alcoholic bakes were concerned. And the sailors had given her enough that they had brandy to drink as well. At some point, she dragged a checkers boards from somewhere, setting it up before Snufkin had a chance to say much of anything.

“Oh, I never get to play with anyone properly these days,” she said. “My eldest used to play with me, but she finds games like this quite boring, she’d never finish it. Oh…but you’d probably prefer chess?”

“Not really,” said Snufkin honestly, leaning over to the refill his brandy glass. 

(A memory, then, half-buried, of rain rattling hard against windowpanes, a house that had been colder these days, less welcoming:

“Snuf, are you sure you’re not _letting_ me win?”

“I’m afraid I’m just not much good at this.”

Noises from upstairs – a muffled argument. The kind that had become more common these days. Fingers lifting and moving the knight to another part of the board, both trying not to hear what’s happening above.

“Well, the trick is – the trick is to sort of predict what I’m going to do before I do it. You just need to figure out what I’m thinking.”

The knight taken, a rook that he should have seen.

“How by the Booble’s name am I supposed to do that?”

Slamming noises. Crying, perhaps, or just deep breathing. It wasn’t his place to find out.

Moving a bishop, taking a pawn.

“I knew you were going to do that.”

Laughter, a gaze on him so soft it made him squirm, frightened and pleased all at once.

“How?”

Fingers stroking over his knuckles, the touch so tentative it was barely there.

“You’re more obvious than you think. Sometimes it’s written all over your face.”)

Snufkin cleared his throat.

“Well, I can never quite hold the rules in my head.”

Mymble laughed carelessly at this, arranging the pieces across the board. Many of them had teeth marks on them, and some of them were just buttons or woodchips painted the right colour.

“Oh, me neither, sweetie,” she said. “I’d much prefer a game of checkers.”

They played, talking slowly and lazily about nothing in particular – the rain outside, the stranger’s frantic rowing, how nicely the cake had turned out. They cleared their plates of one slice, and then another, the bottle of brandy becoming more and more full of air.

The Mymble managed to tune the radio onto some foreign station, playing music from far away neither of them recognised, the host talking quickly and incomprehensibly in some language neither of them had ever encountered. They made a game of trying to guess at what he was saying – catching a word here and there that sounded familiar, trying to make sense of tone and sound effects without context.

“I think,” said the Mymble, taking one of Snufkin’s pieces, “that these people are all calling in with relationship problems, and the host is trying to help.”

On the radio, the host had just made the young lady on the line laugh. She said something, very quickly and agitated, and he responded with something slow and calm.

“Pah! Must everything be about relationships?” said Snufkin, gesturing with his glass and slopping brandy down his sleeve. “Don’t these women have other things to worry about?”

“Oh, almost certainly! Much bigger things, I’ll bet,” she said, laughing and serving them another slice of cake. “It’s just easier to worry about this sort of thing. Whether this chap is Mr Right, or if so-and-so likes her the same way she likes him.”

“Easier?” grumbled Snufkin.

“Oh yes! All of these young ladies likely have other things to worry about – sickly parents, bills to pay, friends who may be speaking badly about them,” said the Mymble, sipping her brandy. “But those are real concerns. Worrying about whether some fellow they met at the dance-hall is going to take them out again is much more fun.”

“I’ve never found it fun,” muttered Snufkin, suddenly not wanting to talk about this. It was all well-and-good for nice young ladies, he supposed, who could play at it without worrying, quite assured the worst that could happen was a little heartbreak.

The Mymble gave him a careful look.

“I forget what a romantic you are, sweetie.”

Snufkin choked on his cake.

“I’m nothing of the sort!”

“Yes you are, dear, make no mistake about it,” she said, unperturbed by Snufkin’s glower. “Get that from your father, no doubt.”

They fell silent, the checkerboard lying untouched between them.

“So,” Snufkin said, leaning over to move a piece at random, not looking her in the eye, “do you know where he is these days?”

“Oh, _they’re_ probably lying in a tree somewhere,” replied the Mymble. “Waiting for the orange flowers to bloom.”

“You haven’t seen him - them?”

Snufkin didn’t like the way his voice came out. He sounded too young.

“Oh, not since we took that trip,” she said. “You know your father – they just want to lie under the sky and watch the leaves change. I simply can’t keep still so long. Sitting under the same orange tree together so long would drive me to insanity.”

The Mymble took another three of his pieces. Snufkin only had two left. He would be losing this round as well, it seemed.

“We could go see them,” said the Mymble, “if you wanted.”

Snufkin took his remaining chips and forfeited them, dropping them in the box on the Mymble’s side of the board.

“What would we say to each other?” he said, snorting. “It’s much too late for all that.”

“Why would it be too late, sweetie?”

Snufkin shook his head, suddenly cold from the inside out. She didn’t understand, no, not at all, and she never had. Neither of them could, at this point. They had spent too long apart – one couldn’t go from strangers to family so easily, no matter how desperately one wanted to. Snufkin had been too old and difficult for it to work.

He drained the dregs of his brandy glass and stood, head spinning. He felt the Mymble’s paw on his elbow, trying to keep him upright, but he tugged away from her grip.

“Is there any tobacco left?” he asked.

“The fellow left a pouch on the counter,” said the Mymble, and she looked as though she was going to say something else, so Snufkin snatched up the pouch and rushed out before she could.

The rain was still coming down outside, leaving the deck slippery under his bare feet. There was another turtle on the deck, but Snufkin ignored it. If the silly creature was fool enough to get itself washed up like that, why should it have any help?

The Groke was waiting in the sea as he reached the railing, her great black form turned away from him, ice spreading and spreading under her dreadful cloak. The rain turned to frost against her, spiderwebs of white against her dark robes.

“Are you following me or not?” he demanded, filling his pipe. “Make up your mind!”

The Groke moaned but didn’t turn to face him. She was staring out at something he couldn’t see.

He stayed out there, watching and waiting for her to come closer.

She didn’t move.

****

The next day, Snufkin woke tucked into bed, with no memory of how he got there. He also woke with a terrible headache, with full memory of how he got that.

He was in his undershirt and the trousers (turned up at the ankle, a bit too long for him). The coat hung on a hook on the door, still dripping.

At least the Mymble had not changed him into his pyjamas, Snufkin thought. He couldn’t bear that sort of embarrassment. Even if likely she only neglected to do so because she forgot. He sat up, rubbing his head and taking stock of the room.

They had painted over the worst of the stranger’s work while waiting for the cake to bake. After the paint had dried, they had added an old vanity to the room. Snufkin couldn’t see why, if the Mymble was so certain her eldest wasn’t coming back for a visit. Snufkin had put it in front of the drawings on the skirting board, but he could still see the tip of a tail, the edge of a paw.

He licked the back of his teeth – his mouth tasted awful and he was willing to bet his breath was no better. He needed a new toothbrush. He probably needed a bath.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d groomed himself. How long had it been?

After a moment’s trepidation, he went to check the mirror.

A stranger looked back at him, tired and unfriendly-looking, with red hair that hung in limp tangles around their thin face. Long antennae – longer than he remembered them, he was certain. There was fur on the stranger’s nose, auburn and coarse. Snufkin touched his cheek and the stranger did too, narrowing their eyes.

It was hard to tell if the stranger was a man or a woman.

Snufkin thought that if he’d like the ambiguity, had he chosen it. But instead, it felt as though his face had grown into something he didn’t recognise, without his knowledge or permission.

He wondered if he’d even be recognised in Moominvalley, if anyone ever came home.

“Land ho!”

Snufkin jumped, almost knocking the mirror off the wall. He hadn’t even realised he’d leaned in so close. The Mymble burst into the room, face bright with excitement.

“Good morning sweetie!” she said.

“Are we in Moominvalley already?” asked Snufkin immediately. He suddenly wasn’t sure if he was ready to go back yet – he had been banking on a few more days at sea, in this pleasant limbo where nothing was expected of him.

“No, no, I just spotted a nice little town for us to do a spot of shopping,” she said. “They’ve got a blue flag raised – you know what that means - Market day! Oh, how exciting!”

“I’m not going,” he said quickly.

“Don’t be silly, Nuusu. It will do you splendid good, to be out among society,” she said, and then looked down at his feet. “Besides, perhaps we can get you some new boots. Before you get a nasty blister.”

“I have no money,” he replied. In response, she plucked something from her pocket and tossed it after him. He grappled but caught it – a leather wallet, with a small amount of money stuffed in the pocket. It was black and a little wrinkled, as though it had been dropped in water and fished out more than once.

“Where did this come from?” he asked because it was much too drab to be anything the Mymble herself owned.

“Oh, that fellow left it, I suppose,” she said, with a flippant gesture that indicating she didn’t give much of a hoot either way. Snufkin hid a smile behind his paw. Well, he supposed the chap was too far away for them to give it back now.

(In other company, there would be someone fretting, feeling terribly guilty and wanting to return it – but, well, that person had always been the better part of him. Snufkin had no such compunctions.)

“Now!” said the Mymble, clapping her paws together with glee. “Let’s go see what the locals have on sale. I’d rather like a new stole.”

****

It was mild out – the winter was finally giving way, and it was starting to feel like spring. There were dozens upon dozens of baby turtles swimming alongside them these days, and Snufkin passed three babies waddling about on the deck as he left.

A great number of people had gathered as they came in, staring at the huge turtle coming to rest near the shore. The good thing was that the Mymble was simply so large and lively, all their attention was on her (throwing an entire loaf of bread in the water for the turtle with a cry of ‘There you go, sweetie!’). Nobody paid much attention to the little creature shuffling around behind her.

Snufkin wobbled as he came back to dry land, the sand warm between his bare toes. It was a far cry from the Great Grey Beach – a golden little bay, with a set of stone steps heading up to the town proper. There were stalls and tents set up everywhere, with salespeople harking everything from fruit and vegetables to clothing to clocks to toys to sweets to everything else in between. Nearby was a long pier, with a rollercoaster and a merry-go-round (which the Mymble was already eyeing).

“Oh, there’s _rides_ ,” she said with delight. “Nuusu, sweetie, it’s not just a market, it’s a _carnival_! Oh what fun, we must stay past nightfall!”

“Am I going to have to get another stranger out of the kitchen tomorrow?” grumbled Snufkin.

“Oh no! I never have more than one a week these days,” she said cheerfully. “I think that’s healthy. More than that and you’re not spending enough time enjoying other things.”

He supposed there was a sort of backwards logic to that he could appreciate.

“Right, well I believe we need some supplies,” said the Mymble. “Nuusu, do you have a list?”

“Why would I?” he asked, earnestly astonished.

“Oh dear, well, one of you must –“ she began, and then laughed. “Oh, oh yes, of course! There’s only one of you! Oh dear, I suppose now _I_ must remember to bring a list! One is so much busier when there are little ones to take care of, but one has so much more help too…now let’s see…”

She began merrily listing off items, looking to Snufkin after each one to confirm if they needed it or not.

“Soap?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” replied Snufkin, not knowing either way.

“Honey?”

“Why not?”

“Thread?”

“If you must.”

The Mymble burst out laughing.

“Oh, dear, Nuusu, you’re no help at all!” she said. “Never mind, never mind! We shall browse and follow our gut, that’s the way to do it!”

It had been a long while since Snufkin had been among so many people. Here and there were hemulens bartering, children running, a fillyjonk balancing a baby in one arm and a bag of shopping in another. There was music playing from radios, men with fiddles and empty cases hungry for coin, people chattering and laughing and shouting and arguing.

It could be a splendid thing, to be amongst such business. Snufkin had enjoyed it in the past. He would slip through the city for a day. He would dissolve into the crowds, enjoying watching the fuss and misery of city life pass him by. There had been times where he’d let himself be seen too – like-minded people he’d spent time with, parties he’d joined. There could be such joy in a short-lived friendship, mutually knowing you’d have the next few days and then you would never see each other again. You’d enjoy that time and then you’d part, no hard feelings, no nasty surprises, just happy memories for each of you, and a friendship that would sit in your ribs and stay the same, year after year.

Now, he just felt overwhelmed. A clown had lumbered over to talk to the Mymble, telling jokes and making balloon animals and all that silly nonsense. Snufkin could only stand sullenly as Mymble howled with laughter, requesting a rude balloon for herself, and one in the shape of a dragon for Snufkin. It was huge and yellow and he didn’t want it, but after it had been made, with the clown smiling at him so earnestly, he couldn’t find it in him to say no.

Carrying the balloon dragon in his paws numbly, he followed Mymble as she continued to laugh and chatter her way through the market. Between the hustle and bustle and Mymble buying all sorts of nonsense (scented candles and extravagant soaps and the like), Snufkin had no idea where they were going until the crowds began to thin.

Or, well, not thin, exactly. But grow a great deal shorter. As they emerged onto the pier, all around them were little children, running and laughing. The stalls were more colourful, and no longer hosted little shops or clothes and handmade soaps, but instead games – knock down the coconuts, hook a rubber duck from a pool, guess how many sweets in the jar – or sugary snacks. Snufkin could hear the music from the merry-go-round, repetitive and almost aggressively cheerful. Off at the end of the pier was some fishermen, still working, but the rest of the pier belonged to the carnival.

The Mymble was beside herself with delight.

“Oh, look! There’s a little air rifle game!” she cried, rounding on the very tired-looking hemulen hosting the stall. “My good man! How much for a round?”

“You can buy tokens at the machine there,” said the hemulen, indicating a brightly flashing machine, with a slot at the top and a tray at the bottom. “One token per play.”

The Mymble didn’t hesitate for a second. She pulled a little coin purse from her pocket and fed the whole lot into the machine, until a great deal of little wooden tokens clattered to the tray the bottom. They were polished cherry wood, with a seashell carved on one side and a crown carved on the other. She grabbed a paper cup and filled it with the tokens, handing a few to the hemulen.

He smiled and took a rifle from the wall, passing it to the Mymble, before ducking below to get something from a drawer.

“Are you any good with firearms?” asked Snufkin. It looked as though the aim of the game was to shoot down the little figures on the opposite side of the stall, all different sizes and colours. Though, puzzlingly, there didn’t seem to be any prizes on offer. The circus he’d spent a little time with as a pup had similar stalls. One could always win a cup-and-ball or a little stuffed cat or something of the like, but this one had nothing at all.

“Why, it’s been so long, sweetie,” said the Mymble. “I couldn’t tell you!”

“Three shots for the lady,” said the hemulen, putting a tray of pellets in front of the Mymble and giving her a red-cheeked smile. Snufkin rolled his eyes.

“Now, what do the different colours mean?” asked Snufkin.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” replied the hemulen.

“The sizes?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Very well then,” he said, folding his arms (the effect rather ruined by the balloon dragon squeaking against his elbow). “We shall work it out ourselves. The tiny silver figures, those must be best.”

“Oh, I’m not going to just shoot all the same, that’s no fun at all,” she replied, squinting through the viewfinder, the rifle a bit small and silly-looking against her vast shoulder.

She fired a shot and there was a _ping_ as a little blue figure went down. Next, she took out a large yellow one. And then finally a medium-sized green one. Not a shot was wasted. The hemulen stared at her.

“Look at that, I got them!” she said. “I remember now, I’m quite good at this, actually.”

Perhaps it was Snufkin’s imagination, but he swore that he caught a quick smirk on her face.

“Right you are, ma’am. Here’s your tickets,” said the hemulen, turning the crank on some little machine and printed out a string of little tickets, rather like tiny train tickets. He handed them to the Mymble.

“Oh, why, what are these for?” she asked. The hemulen merely looked at her silently.

“I’d guess he isn’t at liberty to say,” said Snufkin drily.

“Oh, well, the mystery is exciting,” said the Mymble, shoving the roll of tickets down the front of the dress. “Why don’t you have a turn, sweetie?”

Snufkin regarded the rifle warily and then shook his head. The Mymble raised an eyebrow at him.

“Ho hm, oh well! It’s not for everyone,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Your father was always rubbish at this sort of game.”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Snufkin, as the Mymble bid farewell to the hemulen and they took a turn around the other stalls.

“Oh, they’re no use at all with firearms,” she said. “The sound would frighten them, even when they were the one firing it! A silly old kitten, really.”

Snufkin didn’t know what to do with this knowledge. He’d always imagined the Joxter would be splendid at anything. Turning this over, he trailed after the Mymble as she stopped to play at every stall. Regardless of whether she did wonderfully or terribly, she would laugh all the same and receive at least one ticket. Every time, she prodded Snufkin to play, but he would grunt and decline. Every time, as they walked on, he would wonder why he said no and wish he’d said yes. She bought him some spun sugar and wouldn’t take his refusal, shoving it in her paw.

“The sugar will be good for you, sweetie,” she said, patting her own round tummy. “You’re skinny, and that’s all very well and good if one is meant to be, but I get the feeling you’re not.”

So Snufkin ate the spun sugar, quietly watching the Mymble accumulate rolls and rolls of tickets. Her pockets and her coat were no longer enough to carry them, so she began to wrap them around her arms, not giving a whit how silly she looked.

“What fun! When was the last time I was at such a splendid party?” she said cheerfully.

“What about the sailors?” asked Snufkin.

“Oh, yes, that was splendid too,” said the Mymble absent-mindedly, biting down on her own spun sugar.

They reached the merry-go-round, taking a moment to admire it. It was wonderfully made – all silver and sea blue, the horses sculpted with fish’s tails, with great shells for saddles. Snufkin supposed the marine theme was in-keeping with the pier. It had such an effect that even the dark smudges of the fishermen in the distance didn’t seem out of place.

“Well, I simply must have a go! And the rollercoaster too, the slide, the swings! One needs to try everything when everything is there to try,” said the Mymble, grinning broadly.

“The rollercoaster is wooden and rattling terribly,” muttered Snufkin, as the cart came trundling past, full of little whompers screaming. “What if it falls apart and throws them all into the sea?”

“I suspect they’ll swim back to shore,” she replied, and ruffled his hair. “Now, what is that over there?”

Snufkin followed her gaze – just under the loop-de-loop of the rollercoaster, there was a great group of adults and children alike, all excitement and chatter. Occasionally, a happy creature would come the opposite way through the crowd, clutching something – a teddy bear, a string of pearls, a set of books wrapped in plastic.

The Mymble was heading in that directly before Snufkin knew what was happening, parting the crowd with incredibly ease. Snufkin followed, clutching onto the back of her coat so he wouldn’t be swept into the crowd. A little creep scuttled past, holding a basket of enormous, brightly coloured fruit, grinning from ear to fuzzy to fuzzy ear. What in the great world had everyone in such high spirits?

Finally, they reached the front of the crowd. Amid all the people, was a great throne, built of carved wood and polished sea-shells, upon which sat a wrinkled man, banging his feet in time with the carousel’s music, a grin brightening his weathered face. There was a paper crown, decorated as though painted by many little children, on the top of his head, sagging to the side. Next to him was an enormous sack, made of patterned pink silk, and behind him, was a great banner in blue, with silver text:

**HAPPY BIRTHDAY**

**HIS AUTOCRACTICAL MAJESTY**

_**DADDY JONES** _

**BRING TICKETS FOR PRIZES!**

“Oh, my dear Daddy Jones!” cried the Mymble, delighted. The Autocrat looked up, and upon seeing the Mymble, pushed the little fillyjonk child off his lap and leapt up to greet her.

“Mymble! Dear Mymble!” he said, giving her a twirl, as light on his feet as a man a quarter of his age. “Ha! How splendid to have you at Our birthday celebrations again!”

The Autocrat sounded his foghorn as the Mymble laughed, giving him a twirl back, going as far to dip him.

“Oh my, how long has it been?” she said, and then glanced back at Snufkin. “Why, it must be at least twenty years!”

“Oh, yes, oh yes,” said the Autocrat. He leaned around the Mymble, small bright eyes settling on Snufkin. “Is this all you have with you? Why, Mymble, whatever happened to your horde?”

“Left on their own journeys, every last one of them!” she said, laughing. “Little Nuuskamuikkunen went almost as soon as he was born, but he came back.”

“Is that so,” he said. “Well, how splendid he did – just in time for my centennial! I’m one hundred years old today, you know.”

Snufkin scrunched his nose at that – he perhaps did not remember the story correctly, but he was certain that could not be true.

“Oh, are you really? Well, many happy returns!” said the Mymble, without batting an eyelid.

“Many happy returns,” repeated Snufkin, stiffly.

“Yes, yes! And how lovely to meet you! Why aren’t you just the spit of your lovely mother,” he said, crouching to shake both of Snufkin’s paws. “I am his Autocratical Majesty, the King! You may call me Daddy Jones.”

Snufkin would absolutely not do that.

The Autocrat stood and sounded his foghorn again.

“And how many tickets you’ve gathered, dear Mymble! You’ll be exchanging them for a prize, I assume?” he said, taking a seat and bringing the little fillyjonk back to his lap, giving her a lollipop from his sleeve by means of apology.

“Oh yes, what do I need to do?” she asked.

“Why, simply hand them over! Yes, give Us a moment to take a good look, and We will know exactly what prize to give you,” he said. The Mymble unwound the rolls of tickets from her arms, fished them from her pockets, pulled them from the front of her dress. She piled them on the Autocrat’s lap, burying the poor fillyjonk so thoroughly only her black nose poked out.

The Autocrat put a pair of spectacles on, peering at the tickets over his wrinkled hands, nodding and smiling to himself.

“Well, your prize is very simple,” he said and put his old hand in the silk sack. From it he pulled another bag, handing it to the Mymble. She opened it and tossed her head back in laughter.

“More tokens, so you may play the games and ride the rides to your heart’s content!” he crowed.

“Oh, you’re as much of a card as ever!” said the Mymble, laughing.

“What about you, little mymble?” asked the Autocrat, as one of his subjects scooped up the Mymble’s tickets and tidied them away. It took Snufkin a moment to realise that he was even being addressed.

“Oh,” he said, shaking his head. “No. Haven’t any tickets.”

“But you get tickets even if you lose!” laughed the Autocrat.

“Not one for games today, my Nuusu,” said the Mymble quickly, with a gentle touch to Snufkin’s shoulder. “Daddy Jones, I must ask, do you have the ride you had last time, with the spinning teacups…”

The Mymble and the Autocrat began a conversation about different carnival rides, which turned into a conversation about what had happened to such-and-such and how they had married so-and-so, and then into seemingly the minutiae of every party they had been to in their whole lives. Snufkin tried to catch her eye so they could leave and let the other carnival-goers claim their prizes, but she didn’t even look at him.

After a while of standing listening to the two gossip, barely able to repress a groan, Snufkin decided he could bear it no more and wandered off.

The more Snufkin looked, the more he noticed many of the people on the pier and boardwalk were carrying prizes. None were alike, of course – in fact, they were all vastly different, but one could tell from looking that they all came from Autocrat. It was just like the story Moominpappa had told – somehow or another, everyone seemed to get a present to suit them.

What a horrid thing, Snufkin thought. He did not want a stranger to look at him and give him something to suit, right in front of a crowd of strangers, who would see and laugh and make their own conclusions about who Snufkin was and what he needed. Worse still, Snufkin would have to see it himself, that want he kept buried exposed and undeniable.

No, it wasn’t for him. He dropped the balloon dragon, leaving it to be trampled by the carnival-goers.

Thinking a lot about wanting and not-wanting, he walked along the pier, leaving behind the bright colours and lights of the carnival, to where the fishermen were working. They were drab creatures, compared to the Autocrat’s party guests. All of them trolls, in grey coats and squashed hats, fur musty with salt, paws large and rough. They were quiet and unromantic, which was good.

He saw one glance across at him as he approached. Would these men see a wandering mymble too?

Perhaps he should have made more effort to cover his antennae with his hair but, in that moment, he wanted them to see. Let them take the measure of him.

As it was, the fishermen only looked at him briefly before returning to their work. Snufkin stood right on the edge of the pier, watching them carefully. One of them would break away to talk to him sooner or later. Curiosity always got the upper hand in the end. When it did, Snufkin would ask if they had spare tobacco – the right sort of chap would get the meaning.

One of them got up, but, to his disappointment, not to attend to Snufkin. Instead, he went to one of the nets, which looked strained and heavy. There was a good catch there.

“Give me a paw, you two,” grunted the tallest fishermen. The other two abandoned their rods and came to his side. The three of them grabbed onto the ropes and hauled, the sea water spraying against them. The net was raised, dragging slowly up and up through the water, and with one last tug and shout, it came to the surface.

The net was not filled with fish, but with dozens of green, hard-shelled bodies.

“It’ll be turtle soup for supper,” said one of the men. The men began to pick the turtles from the nets, yanking by the tail even as they squirmed and snapped, tossing them into a container.

“Wait!” said Snufkin, bolting forward. “You can’t!”

Before thinking, Snufkin grabbed onto the tallest man’s elbow. He startled, looking down at him, round-eyed.

“What? What’s it to you, mymble?” he asked. The other men laughed, one of them saying something cruel about catching something else.

“Put them back!” he shouted, louder than he meant to, but the blood was pounding in his ears. The man shook Snufkin off, but Snufkin just grabbed onto him again, harder this time, trying to drag him away.

“You can’t, they’re just babies, don’t you see!” he continued.

“Simmer down now, love,” exclaimed the fisherman.

“They don’t belong to you, put them back!” snarled Snufkin.

“We caught ‘em fair and square,” said the tallest fisherman, turning to face Snufkin properly now. “Now you mind your own business and get along.”

There was no reasoning with him. Snufkin shoved past, ducking under his arm, and started trying to drag the net away and toss it back into the sea. One of the turtles bit him on the arm, but he only grunted with pain and tried again.

“I’m losing my patience with this!” snapped the tallest fisherman, grabbing onto the back of Snufkin’s coat to drag him away, lifting him off his feet. The other two were laughing harder than ever, whether at their friend or at Snufkin he didn’t know. Snufkin kicked out, catching the fisherman in the stomach and he was dropped onto the slippery decking. He got onto his knees and grabbed the edge of the net, and then stopped.

There was one turtle already laying still, the net turned into a noose around its thin wrinkled neck. He touched its thin flippers, but they were limp and unresponsive. Snufkin tore the net with a claw, tucking the little turtle to his chest and turning on the fisherman furiously.

“It’s dead, you see!” he shouted. “It could have grown to the size of an island! It could have, but it died so small!”

The two fishermen stopped laughing. Snufkin had grown loud and desperate enough to turn from funny to frightening. The worst was Snufkin could see it happening – see how he looked and how shameful it was – but he couldn’t stop. All he could think of was the little turtle clutched to his chest.

“It’s a turtle,” said the tallest fisherman, dragging him away. “Just a turtle. You’ve probably eaten dozens yourself. Stop carrying on.”

“They’re different, these ones, don’t you see?” snapped Snufkin, fighting to be free and get back to the net. “Put them back! Put them all back!”

Suddenly, there was a pain in his eye, and he stumbled back.

Being punched was not at all how Snufkin imagined it. For a moment, he didn’t even understand the relationship between the sudden pain and the movement of the fisherman’s arm.

He hadn’t seen the first fist being prepared, but he saw the second, and in numb shock could only brace himself for it.

Instead, there was a splash.

Snufkin opened his eyes to see the fisherman in the water, wide-eyed with shock, water dripping from the brim of his hat. Standing over him was the Mymble, clapping her paws together as though cleaning them off. The two remaining fishermen, suddenly looking small and feeble, simply shrank back, mumbling apologies. It would be a very foolish man, after all, who interfered with an angry mymblemamma.

“Come along, Nuusu,” said the Mymble, a steely note in her voice that Snufkin had never heard before. As shell-shocked as the fisherman, Snufkin allowed her to take his paw and lead him away, still holding the little turtle.

Safely away from the fishermen, the Mymble turned to him, an odd expression on her face.

“What was that all about, sweetie?”

“They’d caught the turtles,” he spluttered, snatching his paw away. The Mymble merely stared at him.

“Well, what of it, dear?” she said. “They’re wild turtles – fishermen can catch them if they like!”

“Of course, you see no issue with it!” said Snufkin, his face flushing red, his eye throbbing where the fisherman had hit him. “You wouldn’t think you owed such little creatures anything! Set them free and let them wash up on whatever strange shores, I suppose!”

“Nuusu –“

Snufkin didn’t want to hear it. He turned tail and fled, into the crowd, through the carnival, to wherever his feet would take him.

****

He ran until he was too tired to run any more, up the beach, where the sand turned to rocks. Eventually, his bare feet hurt too much to run any more, and he dropped to sit. He could still hear the music of the carnival, faintly. He looked back. It was getting darker, and the festival had been lit up – he could see the rollercoaster cart zooming around the tracks, the lights of the Ferris wheel and the stalls. He couldn’t see any of the people.

He looked down at the little turtle in his paws. It looked so pathetic now, mouth open, eyes glassy. The netting was still tangled around its neck.

Carefully, Snufkin unpicked the rope, pulling it loose. He dropped it into the sea. He expected to feel some sort of catharsis from it, as though he’d done the little creature right, but it just continued to look dead and sad.

What was he to do with the body? It would be absurd to bury it, give it a funeral, pomp and ceremony that would mean nothing to such a creature. What use was that?

The best thing would be to turn it into food, really.

“Hypocrite,” he told himself, and rubbed his face, letting the turtle rest in his lap.

There was something wrong with him, he realised. Certainly, there had been a time when he was cheerful and playful and easy to like. But how long had it been since then?

He opened his eyes again and saw the Groke standing on the water, close enough he could see her chattering teeth. She was looking away from him, her hands outstretched. Snufkin stood, looking at her, the cold sea lapping over his toes.

Walking towards her would be easy.

He’d always been good at walking towards the horizon, after all.

There was a _thunk_ behind him.

“Oh, pardon me, little mymble!” said a voice. “Didn’t realise anybody was out here.”

One leg still ankle-deep in the cold sea, Snufkin turned to find the Autocrat standing behind him, smiling brightly at him.

“Shouldn’t you be at the party?” he asked.

“Why yes! But one of the finest parts of any party is sneaking away and having other adventures!” he said, laughing. Snufkin looked back out at the horizon line – the Groke was gone, just like that. He pulled his foot out of the water.

“So,” said the Autocrat, sitting down on a rock. “What’s that little creature in your paws?”

“It’s dead,” said Snufkin. The Autocrat leaned forward and peered at it, fiddling with his spectacles.

“Yes, there’s nothing to be done,” he said, and then looked again at Snufkin. “You’re a kind-hearted soul, to be so upset over such a small creature.”

“I’m not upset,” said Snufkin quickly.

“There’s nothing at all wrong with being upset! Even a king feels upset sometimes.”

“Do you?” asked Snufkin. The Autocrat seemed as likely as the Mymble to have sad moments. After all, he was equally as large and merry and laughing.

“Of course!” he said. “Sometimes a subject can’t attend your party, for instance, or they can and do but they have a rotten time! That’s very sad. Or, sometimes, a beloved subject can’t come to your party ever again. That’s even sadder.”

The Autocrat walked to where the water was washing over the shore and plucked up a flat stone. He tossed it, and it skipped no less than four times over the water before sinking.

“It’s wonderful fun to be the King, but it’s a great deal of responsibility!” he said. “To host a fantastic party, one must be bright and cheerful, but one cannot feel like that all the time.”

“So you pretend,” accused Snufkin, huffing. He knew kings were nothing to be excited over.

“Not at all, poppet!” he replied, unphased by Snufkin’s foul attitude. “We try to cheer ourselves up! Play a game or sing a song, observe a lovely horizon line, think about how splendid it is to be king and how many amazing parties and adventures one has had.”

“And I suppose for you, that _always_ works,” he grumbled.

“No!” cried the Autocrat with a laugh. “Of course, it doesn’t always work! It doesn’t always work for anybody.”

Snufkin looked up at him, pursing his lips.

“Fine then,” he said. “What then?”

“In that case, the sadness needs to live out its life, from start to end,” he said. “It can feel like a terribly long-lived thing, but it will always pass. Sooner or later.”

Snufkin fell quiet. To his surprise, the Autocrat did too, merely sitting and looking out over the water, smiling to himself.

“I’ve been rather beastly lately,” said Snufkin, finally.

“Well, realising as much is very respectable,” he said.

This startled Snufkin into laughter. Most people would instantly assure him that he hadn’t behaved badly at all. Snufkin never had much respect for that – he’d much prefer someone was honest with him that he’d been an ass.

He looked down at the little turtle again, touching the soft underside of its belly.

“I think you’re best putting it in the water,” said the Autocrat, tossing another stone. “As it stands, you’re only making yourself sad.”

“Hm…” said Snufkin, and then glanced side-long at the Autocrat. “Are you _really_ a King?”

“Oh, at some point or another!” he replied, looking for another stone to skip. “After so many centennial birthdays, it gets a little foggy. My castle probably fell into the sea long ago. But castles take themselves much too seriously. So, all the better, I say!”

“I don’t think I’d much like a castle either,” replied Snufkin honestly, rolling up his trousers and hiking up his coat.

Carefully, Snufkin laid the little turtle in the water, right-side up. It sank, turning to a dark shadow under the surface, before vanishing from view entirely. Perhaps the right thing would be to say something. Or to sing something. Yet nothing came to mind. Instead, Snufkin stood and walked back to the surface, rubbing his thumb around his palm.

He decided he would come up with a tune, one that sounded like happy sea turtles swimming at the start, and like the quiet black sea at the end. It would be pensive but not sad, and that would be a nice gift for them.

“I hope that went off right,” said Snufkin worriedly.

“Hardly could have been better,” said the Autocrat, and skipped another stone over the water.

****

The carnival had gone dark by the time Snufkin walked back. The Ferris wheel stood still, but for the little carts creaking in the night wind. All the stalls had closed, doors locking shut and curtains being drawn, and a black tarp had been drawn over the carousel, to keep it from the drizzling rain. Even the ones who swept up debris and tidied away mess had departed, for warm houses and warmer beds. The pier was full of the sad, satisfying feeling of a good long party having come to an end.

The Mymble sat waiting near the end of the pier, right where the two of them had been arguing. She was holding a large umbrella over herself.

Snufkin came to sit next to her, feet handing over the water.

“Hullo,” he said. “How were the rides?”

“Oh, I’ve been on rides like that before, so I decided to just enjoy the view,” she replied. “I gave the rest of my tokens away.”

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“Oh, there will be other carnival rides, sweetie,” she said, laughing. “Besides, there were little ones with no tokens at all and no mother to ask.”

“I suppose so,” he said.

“You’re getting soaked, dear,” she said, switching the umbrella to her other paw so she could hold it over both of them. “I _am_ sorry about the little turtles.”

Snufkin nodded. There was nothing else to be said – not so late, with them both so tired.

“Well,” said the Mymble, standing. “Time to get along, I think. Isn’t far to the Valley now.”

Walking together under the umbrella, the two walked along the pier and up the empty boardwalk towards home.

Under the surface of the water, a little turtle explored the midnight sea, torn netting trailing from the end of its tail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God the Autocrat is fun to write he is crackers. I love the idea that he's been celebrating his centennial for hundreds of years.


	7. The Zinnia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Snufkin gets what he's needed for the entire fic.
> 
> This chapter is more chill than the previous two but it ramps up again for the next two.

Tuffe ran straight from the big house to the train station. Whether the Koi was brave enough to drag herself onto the trolley and row out into the great wide world, whether she and Sniff would meet and be just as besotted, or find each other wanting, Tuffe didn’t know.

All they knew was that they had a ticket that would take them to Moominvalley.

There was a small queue at the ticket-gate, composed of travellers much bigger and better dressed than Tuffe. This surprised them – they thought that people travelled _to_ the city, not out of them. Small and a little scruffy and still dressed in their _Cedric’s_ uniform, Tuffe felt silly standing behind a woman in a fur coat, and a man with a leather suitcase.

“Next!” cried the old man at the ticket gate, and Tuffe toddled forward, dragging along their cradle. It took the old man a moment before he realised where the next customer was, frowning and gesturing at the man behind him.

“Oh, hello!” he said, startled. Tuffe pulled the ticket from their apron and held it up.

“Hm, Fillyjonk Hills…that’s a long train ride,” said the man. “Are you travelling alone?”

Tuffe froze – was it not allowed, for a child to travel by themselves? After a moment, they pointed ahead, into the crowd.

“Your Mummy’s over there?”

Tuffe nodded, bracing themselves to run if the man tried to call one of the women over, to see if anyone would take credit for a little woodie waddling around the train station. If they ran and clambered onto the train, they could squeeze themselves in somewhere small, wait until they gave up and set off.

The man merely shrugged, punching a hole in Tuffe’s ticket and handing it back.

“You better run along and find her,” he said, already waving over the next customer. “The train’s departing in five.”

Tuffe hopped from the platform to the train, leaning over to drag up the cradle after them.

The train was narrow, but the polished wood and red curtains wasn’t much different from the theatre. Tuffe found an empty compartment and took a seat, curling up with their tail tucked into their paws.

Soon, they would be in Moominvalley. The winter cold would go away. It would be spring, and Snufkin would be there, and everything would be new and different.

As the train whistled and pulled out of the station, it began to rain.

****

Tuffe didn’t realise that people would look at their ticket a second time. Nobody came around the stalls in the theatre, double-checking that everyone had a ticket at the interval. It would be ludicrous.

They discovered right away that it was no longer in the pocket of their apron. Panicking, they checked their cradle, methodically snuffling from corner to corner, but it was no use. The ticket inspector – a large forest-troll, with antlers that brushed the carriage ceiling, drummed his fingers against his arm. What was the penalty for riding the train unattended, Tuffe thought frantically, becoming more and more frightened. Prison? For how long?

“Are you looking for this?”

A fillyjonk lady, with wide, timid eyes and a wobbly sort of smile, had appeared at the ticket inspector’s elbow, holding a ticket in one shaking paw.

_CHILD TICKET_

_CITY TO FILLYJONK HILLS_

_ONE WAY_

Tuffe nodded furiously, grabbing for the ticket. The ticket inspector eyed them both dubiously, and for a second Tuffe thought the fillyjonk would crumble.

“It was on the floor, in the aisle,” she said, pointing outside the compartment. “Anyone can drop a little ticket like that. It’s very easily done.”

“Hm,” said the inspector, taking the ticket and peering at it carefully through his spectacles. “FIllyjonk Hills. All by yourself?”

Tuffe nodded.

The inspector looked at Tuffe’s rumpled uniform.

“You’re from that sweet shop in town?” he said, in a tone that suggested he thought Tuffe had stolen the uniform, and the ticket too.

Tuffe thought about the woman in the fur coat, and the man carrying the leather suitcase. They both looked like real grown-ups, brisk and efficient and thinking of numbers and purchases and many things like that. Then they thought about what those people would say if they were a character on the theatre stage, and pretended they were wearing a fur coat, and carrying a leather suitcase, and the words came out quite naturally:

“I’m travelling on business.”

The troll’s ears twitched.

“Hm! Well, if you say so,” he said, and punched a second hole in the ticket. He handed it back to Tuffe and turned around to leave, with just an ‘Excuse me ma’am’ to the fillyjonk.

“Oh, I thought he would never leave!” said the fillyjonk, breathing a sigh of relief.

Tuffe didn’t say anything, still shaking a little. Fillyjonk smiled her wobbly smile and pointed at the seat opposite them.

“May I sit?” she said. “The other compartments have too many people in them. I’d much prefer a private one, but they’re all full. I suppose since you’re so little, you will have much fewer germs.”

Tuffe stared, not sure what that meant, but eventually nodded. The Fillyjonk came in, carrying a carpet bag with her. She shuffled into the opposite seat, squeezing past the table, and placed the carpet bag on the seat next to her, just like how Tuffe had put down their cradle.

“You know,” she said, leaning forward as though telling a secret. “This is only the second time I have ever ridden the train! Oh, it was terrifying the first time. All those uncleaned seats and strange footprints, the rattling machinery, spewing smoke everywhere – smoke! Pure putrefaction! Makes you cough, turns your lungs black. Disgusting.”

Tuffe glanced out of the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the smoke billowing above. All they could see was the curtains and the rain.

“I barely moved the whole journey and kept my handkerchief over my mouth. I couldn’t stop thinking of all those gems…” said Fillyjonk, and then shuddered. She leaned over and opened the clasp for her carpet bag, rummaging about inside it, leaning so far that the tip of her long nose disappeared inside. After a moment, she pulled out something that gleamed in her shaking paws.

“I shall play a little music, if you don’t mind,” she said.

Tuffe made a grabbing gesture towards her.

“You’d like to see?” she asked, dubiously. Tuffe nodded. Fillyjonk held the object carefully in both paws for a moment, looking as though she was going to refuse, but then she nodded, quite seriously.

“Yes, I must be generous. I decided to be. But you mustn’t touch,” she said. “If you touch it, it will need to be cleaned.”

Tuffe promised not to, even though they didn’t understand why. One didn’t grow up with so many brothers and sisters and worry about cleanliness, after all.

Fillyjonk seemed satisfied with this and held it out. It looked expensive, made of carefully polished silver and gleaming maple wood. All at once, Tuffe sprung to their feet, tail thrashing furiously.

“You like it, I take?” said Fillyjonk. Tuffe couldn’t speak – they were simply too excited – and settled for bouncing up and down. Oh, it wasn’t gold and rosewood, but it was so terribly close!

“Oh, yes, well that’s wonderful, but please! Sit down. Standing where one should sit makes one liable to fall, and it’s fraying my nerves, and that could give me a heart-attack, and –“

The Fillyjonk stopped, breathing deeply in and holding the mouth-organ close to her chest.

“I will play,” she said, with her eyes closed and nodding her head so the bobble on her hat bobbed.

She put the mouth-organ to her lips and played. It was a gentle song, almost like a lullaby. They watched carefully and quietly, as one should when someone was performing, and then when she was done, they applauded (even though Snufkin would undoubtedly play much more nicely).

“Thank you,” they said, the music having calmed them down enough to sleep. “That was very nice.”

“You’ve good manners,” said Fillyjonk. There were fewer higher compliments from a fillyjonk, but as few ever ventured to the theatre, Tuffe had no way of knowing this.

“Are you really going all the way to Fillyjonk Hills by yourself?” she asked.

“Mm,” said Tuffe, eyelids heavy.

“It’s very quiet there. I hope you aren’t going to build a sweet-shop up there. They rot your teeth, you know. Cavities,” she said, and looked worried yet again. “Oh, do say you’re not building a sweet shop in Fillyjonk Hills.”

“I’m not building a sweetshop,” said Tuffe. “I’m going to Moominvalley.”

“Moominvalley!” cried Fillyjonk. “Why, I haven’t thought of it in so long. It became too quiet for even me. I moved when the family didn’t come back.”

Tuffe felt a prickle of disinterest at this. Not the kind of flat disinterest that could be applied blandly to so many things, but the hot kind, the kind that came when something bored you but seemed to thrill so many others. Fillyjonk looked uncomfortable.

“But I haven’t been back in so long!” she assured them. “Perhaps they’ve returned.”

“It’s okay if they haven’t,” muttered Tuffe.

“Is it really?”

Tuffe nodded.

“Hm. Travelling to Moominvalley, but not to see the family,” she said, and blew a few short notes on her mouth-organ. “What for, then?”

Tuffe curled back up in their seat, clutching their tail between their paws. The gentle rocking of the train carriage was making them sleepy.

“’Nufkin,” they mumbled, eyes falling closed.

“What was that?” asked Fillyjonk. “Another?”

“Mm.”

“Nobody ever asks me for another,” she said, and Tuffe didn’t need to see her face to know she was smiling. They didn’t bother to correct her.

So, the Fillyjonk played, and little Tuffe drifted to sleep.

****

It was funny, really, how sometimes things only begin to hurt a bit later. It seemed a cruel joke that someone should be able to walk away from something and think it nothing, only to be bowled over by it later.

This was what Snufkin thought about as he woke to his eye swollen and bruised where the fisherman had punched him. He went to look in the mirror, finding that red-haired stranger staring back at them, half their face black-and-purple. Snufkin prodded at his face. The stranger repeated the gesture. The stranger shifted their hair, trying to cover the bruise, but it only looked worse.

They looked frightful. Even Snufkin had to admit that.

It was easy to just forget about these frivolous things - combing one’s hair, washing one’s fur, tidying one’s clothes – but he supposed if one forgot them for too long, they could build up in quite a nasty way.

“Right then,” he told himself. “Something must be done, and you must be the one to do it. There is nobody else.”

With that, he marched out and over to the kitchen. Outside, it was still raining, and there were no turtles on the deck. The Mymble didn’t seem to be awake yet. Perhaps all mothers liked to snooze when it was raining outside, Snufkin thought.

Scissors, that was the thing. He rummaged through a few drawers, opened and closed the cupboards and dug through a chest of bits-and-bobs the Mymble kept in a corner. No scissors, not even the little sort some creatures used to trim their claws.

There was nothing for it. He returned to the cutlery drawer, rummaging through mis-matched spoons until he found what he was looking for. A little paring knife, with a green handle decorated with a little painting of a daisy.

Looking at his reflection in a pan hanging from the wall, Snufkin grabbed a length of his hair and pulled it away from his head. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the paring knife into it. The resistance he met surprised him – he actually had to saw, as though cutting away a stubborn branch.

Eventually, it came away – a clump of tangled red thread in his paw, coarse as rope. He wasn’t sure how much more he had to go.

There was a movement by the door and Snufkin jerked around to look, quick as an animal. The Mymble stood at the door. Her gaze went to the knife in his paw.

For a second, an unfamiliar expression came over her face – she paled, eyes widening, and, for a second, she seemed as though she was going to charge forward. And then her gaze dropped to the tangle of hair on the floor, and her expression softened, and she forced a smile, so quick and so broad Snufkin was certain he imagined the first reaction.

“This seems like a difficult way to go about things, dear,” she said and laughed. “Why, you could have just come woken me up.”

Before Snufkin could react, she had the knife out of his paws with the speed and smoothness of someone who had a long history of needing to take dangerous things from small creatures very quickly.

“Right, if we’re going to do this, we’ll have to get your hair wet first!” she said. “Oh, this will be fun, I haven’t cut hair in such a long time! It always was my favourite little chore, you know. I’d have had all my little kiddies grow their hair out if I had my way, but not every little one likes it.”

“Wait,” said Snufkin, not quite sure when she’d picked him up but quite unable to make his way back down to the floor. “You mean a _bath_?”

“Yes, dear! I can heat you one up, no problem at all,” she said. “I bought some spell-tags at the market.”

“What for? The sea’s right there and requires no fancy parlour tricks at all.”

“Oh, you’re just like your father,” she said. “You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.”

“I hardly have a choice,” grumbled Snufkin, folding his arms.

“You could escape easily,” said the Mymble with a laugh. Snufkin turned his face away.

He hadn’t realised there was a bathroom on the house-boat. He simply did his business in the bedpan and threw it overboard – no need for something as ostentatious as an entire _room_ dedicated to such activities. It was small, with cracked tiles on the walls, some of them bearing childish drawings, of turtles and seascapes and pirate ships.

In the centre of the room was a large metal tub. The Mymble put him down, turning to rummage in a small wicker basket full of sponges and rubber ducks and other little things like that.

“Now, where did I put them, surely in here…” she muttered to herself.

After a moment, she pulled out a tiny book, like a book of raffle tickets, if it was small enough there was only one ticket per page. Each one had a little drawing on them, some tiny illustration of flowers or herbs.

“There’s all sorts of different scents, it’s very exciting! I had four baths last night alone, just to try them out!” said the Mymble cheerfully. “Let’s see…honeysuckle, maybe? Lavender and rose? Sea salt and fig? Oh, dear, what about tulips? A tulip bath sounds exciting.”

Snufkin shrugged, shoving his paws in his pocket. The Mymble showed him the little book. He jabbed at one at random.

“Zinnia then,” she said, sounding a little downtrodden that he wasn’t having as much fun with this as she wanted. She tore the little ticket out and tossed it into the bottom of the bath. Patting down her pockets, she then pulled out a box of matches, struck one against the comb, and tossed it inside the tub. It caught onto the ticket and blazed. Snufkin startled back, surprised by the force of it, and was about to inform the Mymble that she had been conned, when a jet of water shot out of the centre of the ticket.

The water spread like a fountain, filling the tub slowly with steaming water, shimmering in shades of orange, pink, and yellow, frothing white at the edges. As soon as the water was a few inches from the lip of the tub, the Mymble gave the tub a brisk tap. The water apologetically spluttered to a stop.

“Right, sweetie,” said the Mymble, as Snufkin started down at the steaming water as though it was going to eat him. “There’s fresh towels in that cupboard there – no, not that, one the turquoise one, that’s the ticket. Don’t forget to scrub your hair through.”

With that, she trotted out, her narrow heels skimming over the uneven, damp tile as though it was as easy as anything. Snufkin breathed a sigh of relief – for a moment, he was certain she wouldn’t even let him undress in peace.

He lifted an arm and sniffed at him, and then puckered his lips. Well, yes, he supposed it was overdue for him, at this point.

Turning to a corner, he undressed, kicking his clothes (both the ones that were really his and the ones that were much too big for him) into a rumpled pile. He didn’t much like being bare – he swam in his coat, if in company, and in his underwear, if not.

He’d been asked why once, by someone half-laughing (“Snuf, it’s dark, there’s nobody around but me!”), half-concerned (prone to worrying, especially over him).

Snufkin hadn’t been able to answer. He had only shrugged, amused himself a little with the other’s barely-hidden disappointment, and dove under the water again, dragging his sodden clothes with him.

Clicking his tongue, Snufkin looked down at the water again. He supposed it was better than _indoor plumbing_ (how people thought letting one’s excretion go around and around in the walls of one’s home was more civilised than simply returning things to the earth where they belonged, Snufkin could never understand) but he still didn’t trust it. Yet he was certain the Mymble would continue being a bother if he didn’t play along.

Sighing, he slowly eased one foot into the water, and then the other. It was hot, but not unpleasant. It didn’t seem he was breaking out in horrible boils.

He sank down the rest of the way into the water, breathing in the floral scent. Rain continued pattering against the roof, and he could feel the steady movements of the turtle beneath him, her fins stretching through the water.

It would be a fine time for a tune, he thought and almost twisted out of the bath to look for his pack, before remembering.

Humming would have to do.

****

“Excuse me? Little creature?”

Tuffe woke to a black blob twitching in front of their face. They waved a paw, blinking, and began to make the outline of the muzzle attached to it, the long whiskers, the wobbly smile, and the large watery eyes.

The train was still around them. Tuffe jumped up and stretched up to see out of the window, pressing their fuzzy nose against the glass. It was still raining, but it looked like daytime. On the platform was a sign: FILLYJONK HILLS.

They looked over at Fillyjonk, who was sitting with her carpetbag on her lap, twisting the strap between her paws.

“You slept the whole time,” she said. “Even when there were delays, when we went over big bumps, past all the mess from that earthquake…”

“Sorry,” said Tuffe, feeling quite embarrassed to have slept like a little baby. Especially when they had so confidently said they were travelling for business.

“Not at all. I think I would have found the journey frightening otherwise. You looked so peaceful that all I had to do was look at you, and I calmed right down,” she said, and then stood. Tuffe hopped down from their seat, dragging their cradle behind them. Fillyjonk slid open the compartment door – the narrow hallway was empty.

“I sat until everyone else left,” she explained. “All that pushing and shoving is no good for one’s heart.”

Tuffe followed Fillyjonk onto the platform, allowing her to help with bringing the cradle from the train. The train station was quiet, but for a few sparrows hopping here and there in the early morning light. The ticket gate was open, and the little coffee stand was closed. They simply walked out.

Fillyjonks tend to build their houses in a very particular way. While moomins tend to keep to the stove shape and blue colouring, they were quite adventurous overall, the best of them making rather beautiful and elaborate structures to impress their mate. Fillyjonks, on the other hand, a blueprint that they all agreed upon. Every fillyjonk, when they were old enough to leave home, received one and build it, exactly as instructions laid out.

The houses were all symmetrical, perfectly so, square, and painted the same plain colour. While it was technically admissible to paint the front door an interesting colour, most fillyjonk weren’t brave enough to do so. After all, what if the colour they picked was silly and the neighbours sneered at it? No, no, on the whole, better to go with the same as everyone else.

The houses were all built the same way, each on the top of a hill. Perhaps the fillyjonk first settled in Fillyjonk Hills because they were all so perfectly spaced apart, or perhaps after so long, the hills themselves had become more fillyjonk-ish. It is difficult to say.

“That’s my house, there, you see. I have an _orange_ door,” said Fillyjonk proudly. “It’s to remind me of autumn, you see, and how things can change.”

Tuffe nodded. The orange stood out.

“Moominvalley?” they asked.

“Oh, er,” said Fillyjonk, coughing. She pointed to the far horizon, where a line of great dark pines stood. “It’s through the woods. You see the grey wall, the red gate?”

Tuffe saw. They grabbed the rope tied to their cradle, ready to walk the forest path.

Suddenly, there as a soft paw against their shoulder. They jumped, looking up to see Fillyjonk bent over, face worried.

“Are you quite certain? There isn’t anything much in Moominvalley these days,” she said, “and those woods – oh, they’ve gotten darker and darker recently. It’s only the snufkin who goes through them, now.”

Tuffe’s tail shot up at the mention of Snufkin.

“Snufkin?” they asked.

“Yes, dear. I tell him not to, but he finishes his cup of tea and off he goes anyway,” she said. “I don’t think it does him any good.”

“Snufkin,” repeated Tuffe.

“Is it him you’re looking for?” said Fillyjonk, squinting. Tuffe nodded.

“He usually comes this way. Perhaps you should just wait?” she said, and then added, very quietly. “You can stay with me a little while. I will do my best not to mind.”

Tuffe looked down at their bare toes, wiggling in the bright grass. They were tired, terribly so, and they hadn’t noticed until now. It would be easy, thought Tuffe, to follow Fillyjonk to a symmetrical house with an orange door. They didn’t know her well, but she seemed kind. Tuffe could wait, and drink tea, and watch the world around them change, hoping to see a green shape in the distance, a song drifting over the hills.

Waiting would be easier than searching.

“No,” said Tuffe finally, and then looked up. “Thank you.”

Fillyjonk pursed her lips, but nodded, standing upright.

“I see,” she said. “Sometimes one needs to finish what one has started.”

“Yes,” said Tuffe.

“Give Snufkin my regards, won’t you?” she said.

“Of course,” said Tuffe, and because it felt right, they extended their paw. Fillyjonk looked at it for a moment, snout wrinkling, but then she pinched herself. With another of her trying-hard smiles, she shook it.

“Good luck,” she said, and turned to walk down her path, but then paused, fishing her mouth-organ out of her carpet-bag. “A song for the road?”

Tuffe nodded. She was quite good, really. Turning her back from them, she put the mouth-organ to her lips and played as they walked their separate ways.

Even after Fillyjonk disappeared from sight, Tuffe could hear her tune, full of cautious joy. They walked the neatly-paved paths of Fillyjonk Hills, following the many signs, until they finally reached the trees, the wall, and the red gate.

Hanging on the gate was a sign, written in careful cursive:

_Danger Beyond This Point!_

_Trees and plants and creatures most uncivilised._

_We strictly advise only continuing if necessary._

_If it is not necessary, please return home and simply read about walking through the woods in an appropriate piece of literature._

Reached through the bars of the gate, Tuffe fiddled the latch open. The gate swung open, and Tuffe walked forward, into the shadows of the trees.

****

How long was a bath supposed to take, wondered Snufkin. There wasn’t a clock in the bathroom, and he had never carried one on his person, having little need to.

“Well, I’ll fall asleep if I sit here much longer,” he said. With that, he gave his hair a final scrub through and stood. He climbed out of the tub, surprised by how light his head felt and how stumbling his footsteps were. The steam had got into his head, clearly.

He grabbed one of the Mymble’s towels – it was soft, far softer than the rag he usually kept in his pack for such business. For a second it startled him enough to give him pause, rubbing the pads of his paws up and down the soft texture, before he tutted, disgusted with himself. With as furiously little care as he could manage, he scrubbed himself dry and tossed the crumpled towel into the corner.

He redressed, leaving the coat because he still felt a bit red-faced and dizzy from the hot water, and drank a pawful of clear water from a bucket in the corner (lukewarm, but good enough).

Slinging the folded coat over his arm, he looked down at the still-full washtub. The bubbles had fizzled away, and the colour was a murky grey.

“I can’t tip it overboard,” he said. “Witch-water can’t be any good for turtles or fish. So, what to do with it?”

He rapped it on the side with his paw, as the Mymble had done, but nothing happened.

“I’m finished,” he told it. “You can go now. That’s enough.”

The washtub continued to be full.

Frustrated, he kicked it, and a stream of water shot out, splashing him in the face. He tripped on his own feet and fell, dripping water from his nose.

“Well, excuse me!” he barked. The washtub gurgled.

Witchcraft! One could never trust it!

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the little book the Mymble had left. Perhaps that would give some insight. He flicked it open, flipping through until he found a series of illustrations in the back cover. A simply-drawn troll placing the tag in the bottom, throwing a lit match onto it, and then luxuriating in a full bath. The final illustration was very simple.

Sighing, Snufkin put the book back onto the shelf and returned to the washtub. He placed his paws on the rim, feeling silly.

“Thank you,” he said.

For a second, it didn’t seem as though this had done anything, but then the water began to drain, swirling and lowering. Eventually, it sunk right to the bottom and disappeared altogether. At the bottom of the washtub, sat a plump flower. A zinnia, naturally, in magenta and yellow. Beneath that was a little tag, with what Snufkin assumed was the witch’s rune-name written on it.

Nervous that the spell might take badly to him ignoring the flower, Snufkin scooped it up. It was dry to the touch and very pretty. He tucked it into his breast-pocket.

He stepped back out onto the deck, where the Mymble was setting up a stool and a standing mirror, the tablecloth draped over her arm. The rain pattered down on the tarp overhead. The Mymble’s radio sat on the floor nearby, crackling and playing foreign music Snufkin didn’t recognise.

“There you are!” she said cheerfully. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

“I suppose. Thank you,” he said. She patted the stood. Obediently, he sat down, letting the Mymble tie the tablecloth around him, smoothing it down over his shoulders. Snufkin avoided looking in the mirror, glancing instead to the side, watching the rain come down over the sea.

“Now,” she said, putting a paw gently on the back of his head, taking a comb from her pocket and pulled it through his hair. He winced and gritted his teeth at the tug, feeling tangles catch and knotted hair be pulled away.

“Oof, Nuusu, you really have let it get a certain way,” she mumbled, as she flicked a large clump of hair off her knuckles. “Never mind! Never mind! What’s done is done, and what’s done is easily fixed.”

With that, she fished some scissors from her pocket. They were very shiny and thinner than kitchen scissors – he supposed these were the ‘proper’ tools for the task. People really would make special things for any old job.

“Now, are we taking it all the way to the scalp, sweetie? Or something a touch longer,” she said. “You look handsome with it long, too.”

“Hadn’t thought about it,” he said, shrugging. The Mymble put her free paw on his shoulder.

“Don’t squirm, dear,” she said briskly. “Well, if you can’t decide, let’s chop it to your chin, that should neaten it up. If you’d like it shorter still, we can do that.”

“Reasonable enough.”

The Mymble set to work, taking off the ends first. She was more careful than Snufkin expected, taking her time and easing his head into place with her paws, careful not to pull or push too hard. It was quite different from hacking at it with the pair of kitchen scissors in his pack.

He dared a glance at the mirror. The stranger’s gaze met his. They looked absurd with the checkered tablecloth draped around them. The bruise across one side of their face was even more swollen than it had been that morning.

He looked at the Mymble’s reflection. She was focused, her tongue between her teeth.

They looked alike – the stranger and the Mymble. And it wasn’t just the antenna or the red hair. There was the same round cheek, soft jaw, large eyes. They had the same small paws.

“It’s such a novelty,” said the Mymble suddenly, “being able to take my time like this! Normally, when one has ten, twenty, thirty, however many little kiddies running to and fro, you just have to line them up and chop, chop, chop. Cutting gum out of hair, chopping ponytails off, snipping and tidying and just trying to keep things neat. You simply have to be slap-dash about it.”

Snufkin said nothing.

“And then,” she continued, “there’d be some quiet little chap who still has hair in his eyes, and you missed him entirely, just because he’s so small. So many things get lost in the muddle.”

His shoulders tensed, fingers curling into fists under the tablecloth. The Mymble’s paws fell still in his hair. It felt like there was something in the way her thumb smoothed the hair behind his ear – perhaps an apology.

“Do you miss it?” asked Snufkin. The Mymble looked up at their reflections, puzzled. Snufkin amended his question. “Having all the little children about?”

She laughed.

“Oh, yes, of course!” she said. “It’s lovely to have time to oneself, but you can have too much of a good thing.”

She crouched, brushing the hair from the back of his neck in a business-like manner.

“Most of them came in batches, you know. It was just my eldest, Little My, and you, who came into the world all by yourselves. I always wondered why,” she said. “Turn the other way, sweetie, I need to look at your fringe.”

Snufkin twisted around on the stool, so he was facing the Mymble instead of the mirror. He didn’t get to see her for long, because she combed out the hair at the front of his scalp, and all he could see was auburn, and something blurry moving through the strands.

“Wonder you can see anything,” she said, clicking her tongue.

“One only needs to push it aside,” replied Snufkin tartly. She only laughed at him, unperturbed.

“Your father’s hair was long, last I saw them,” she said, and stretched out the longest strand of Snufkin’s fringe between two fingers. “Longer than this, you know. And even more unkempt.”

“Did you cut the Joxter’s hair, too?”

“Oh no, sweetie! They’re not my responsibility,” she replied, snipping away. “They asked after you, you know. They always do.”

“How nice,” said Snufkin.

“It’s the first thing they ask me, every time I see them,” she said firmly. The radio-host finally stopped talking and played a new song.

“What did you tell them?” he asked finally.

“Whatever I knew. You were travelling, and still returned to Moominvalley regularly,” she said. “Your father loved stories, none more so than if you were in them. You tore down all the signs in a park. You aided in an escape from the police. You encountered a dragon made of solid gold and gave it away. Your father liked that story.”

Enough hair had been cut away that Snufkin could see her now. Smiling, the Mymble reached up and gently tugged on strands of hair either side of his face, checking they were the same length.

“Although I didn’t tell them everything,” she said.

“Oh?” he said. “What didn’t you?”

“Well,” said Mymble, laughing. “I wasn’t quite sure about your business with that grasshopper.”

Snufkin choked on thin air, all the blood rushing to his face. The Mymble howled at his expression.

“Oh dear, don’t look so mortified! I’m impressed,” she said, grinning. “Even I’ve never been so adventurous!”

“How did you know about that!?” he wheezed finally, after making a few pathetic rasping noises.

“Moominmamma and I used to talk quite a lot, sweetie,” she said, and then caught his expression. “Oh, no, don’t imagine she was gossiping. She probably didn’t even mean to tell me. It’s just that, when I asked about you, she couldn’t quite stop herself. She talked about you like you were her own.”

Before Snufkin could protest that, she grabbed a towel and rubbed his hair dry, ignoring his muffled whines. She brushed it out with the same vigour, before turning him to face the mirror again.

“Right then!” she said. “All trimmed and tidy! Now I think it looks rather sweet like this, but we can go shorter if you want.”

Snufkin had to admit – it was an improvement. Of course, there was still the bruise, the tiredness, the too-thinness and the too-paleness. But the reflection looked less haggard than before. More cared-for.

“I’m still not sure,” he said.

“Well,” she said, rubbing the towel behind Snufkin’s ear. “There isn’t a hurry. We can leave it like this for now. If you decide you’d like something more, all you have to do is ask.”

She let Snufkin take the towel from her, finishing drying at the back of his neck. Snufkin looked at her reflection. The Mymble had been a terrible stranger for so long. He still wasn’t sure what she wanted.

Beneath them, the turtle turned. He was certain she was slower than yesterday, now there were so much fewer of her little children swimming alongside her.

“I think,” he said, “I will make a pot of coffee. If you’d like some.”

“That would be lovely, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is just Snufkin for the entirety of this fic.](https://i.redd.it/bxlnkc2tju831.jpg)
> 
> I love low-key magic in these sort of settings. And magic that's sorta-kinda-sentient.


	8. The Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going for the record of "most obscure characters put into one fic" here.

Tuffe had not been to a real forest before. The closest was the park, where they and their siblings had lived in the sandpit, under the stern gaze of the Park Keeper. Even then, it was not true woodland – all the trees had been planted and were cultivated a certain way, to not grow too high or too wild, all intended for park guests to look at or sit under.

A real forest, Tuffe discovered was completely different. It was never as quiet as the park. Tuffe could hear crackling beneath their feet, roots of age-old trees reaching out to one another. Winged things beat between the trees, calling shrilly out, and something moved in the bushes. The rain barely made it through the canopy, but the sound seemed louder here.

Every now and then, Tuffe caught a glimpse of something moving, a pair of sharp eyes, a paw, a swishing tail, but whenever they turned, it was gone.

Tuffe were certain, in a way that raised all the fur from their neck to their tail, that they were being watched.

Tuffe had never lived as a little woodie should. Woodies were meant to live in the roots of trees, feeding off the dripping saps. They were meant to scatter pollen and seeds throughout the forest to help it grow, to frighten away trespassers, to do all sorts of duties for forest and its residents. Tuffe had never done any of that – in the park, Woodies were only for looking at. Perhaps the forest saw this and knew. Perhaps it was angry.

There was a thump behind them, and Tuffe jumped. They whirled around, but there was nothing there. Trying to calm their nerves, they tugged on the rope attached to their cradle and tried to continue – it jammed. It had gotten stuck behind a tree root, looping out of the ground. Tuffe was certain it hadn’t been there before.

They crouched, lifting the front of the cradle with their paws to bring it over the tree root. It was difficult, dragging it over. Their apron kept catching on branches, and Tuffe had to seize it and drag it out their grip.

The path through the woods was getting narrower, they thought.

Something hit the back of Tuffe’s head.

They turned, tail standing upright. There was nothing, just a little unripe berry on the ground. It could have fallen from anywhere, perhaps knocked loose by an errant raindrop.

“You must calm down,” said Tuffe sternly to themselves.

They turned back, and the cradle was gone, just a flat patch of grass where Tuffe had been dragging it. Panic started to grasp them now – they hadn’t heard it be snatched. They dropped in their knees, scrabbling in the dirt, and poked their nose into the nearby bushes. It was nowhere to be found.

Snufkin’s letters were in there, Tuffe suddenly realised.

“Excuse me!” shouted Tuffe, up at the canopy of swaying branches above. “Please, I need you to give that back.”

_“Excuse me!”_ shouted a shrill voice, in the branches.

_“Need you to give that back! Need that back!_ ”

_“Give that back, I need you to give that back!”_

There was a lot of screeching laughter, and Tuffe backed away, holding their arms to hide their trembling.

“It’s – it’s got something important in it!” they stuttered. “Please?”

“ _Something important! Something important!_ ”

“ _Give that back, please, give that back!_ ”

“ _Please please please!_ ”

Whatever was in the branches began to laugh again, and Tuffe felt their throat tighten. They blinked, trying to stand up straight, be brave.

“Please, it doesn’t –“

Something hit Tuffe on the nose. They stumbled back, but not before something else hit them on the head. Suddenly, little hard nuts and berries – not yet softened with spring – came raining down from every direction, smacking off Tuffe’s head and shoulders. The voices above continued to laugh, bouncing unseen from branch to branch.

“Stop it, that hurts.”

“ _Hurts! That hurts, stop it!_ ”

“ _Something important!”_

“ _Give that back! Please please please!”_

Tuffe ran, their paws over their head to protect themselves from the projectiles being showered at them overhead. They ran without looking where they were going, just desperate to be away from that horrible laughter, the sharp pains in their head and back. Sharp things snagged at their clothes, and the mud sucked at their paws, slowing them.

Something crawled under their feet and they stumbled and fell forward into the dirt. A weight pressed onto their upper back, hot breath against their neck, and Tuffe had the image of slavering jaws, rows of sharp yellow teeth.

A sob choked out of them.

The weight vanished. The woods fell quiet again. Tuffe didn’t move, too shivering and soaked and frightened to even consider it.

“Big baby!” said a voice. “Only joking!”

Slowly, Tuffe lifted their head. Hanging from the tree above was a tiny monkey, with silky white fur and a dark, grinning face. She held the crib in her tiny paws, turning it this way and that and peering at it, eyes glittering.

“Was that you? All of it?” asked Tuffe, in a voice that was barely more than a squeak. The little monkey showed no sign that she’d heard, her attention entirely on the cradle. She bit the wood and then immediately jerked back, spitting and rubbing splinters off her tongue with her paw.

“Bleugh! It’s not even tasty!” she cried. “Why make that much fuss over something, if one can’t even eat it?”

“It’s not for eating,” said Tuffe, sitting up. “Give it back, please.”

“Why should I? Who are you? Where are you going?” said the monkey.

“I’m going to Moominvalley,” said Tuffe, standing. They grabbed onto the lowest branch of the tree and tried to drag themselves up.

“Moominvalley!” hooted the monkey, hanging upside-down by her feet, arms hanging down. “To see the Moomintroll?”

“No, I –“

“To see the Moomintroll, to see the Moomintroll!” she repeated, laughing and swinging back and forth. She dragged herself up and perched on the branch again, leaning down and grinning at Tuffe. “I know the Moomintroll! He saved my mother’s life! When the big comet came down, ready to burn the world up!”

“I’m not going to see the Moomins,” snapped Tuffe, struggling to get up the next branch. “I’m going to find Snufkin.”

“The Moomintroll was the only one brave enough!” continued the Silk Monkey’s Daughter (for it was her, naturally). “Everyone else was cowering under the ground. The sky was turning red, and the whole wide world was on _fire_.”

She laughed, as though the entire world being on fire was a delightful notion to her. Tuffe managed to get to the branch below her, but she leapt up to a higher one nimbly, the cradle still hanging from her paws.

“But the Moomintroll ran out to find my mother, taking her from the plum tree to the shelter!” she said, laughing. “So, she didn’t burn up, even when all the other silk monkeys did!”

Tuffe sat on the branch, gasping for breath. It was very hard to climb a tree when you were so small, and meant to stay in the roots of the tree. Poor Tuffe felt light-headed and thirsty, and the little monkey’s voice was making her ears ring.

“The comet didn’t hit, though,” said Tuffe, because they had read history books in the theatre library. A favourite was, of course, the comet Snufkin had seen when he was small. “The silk monkeys wouldn’t have burned up.”

The Silk Monkey’s Daughter laughed.

“So you think, so you think!” she crowed. “But the comet was soooo close. You felt the burn on your face! The grass turned black! There was soot in the air! Little creatures choking on smoke! Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful!”

She threw another berry at Tuffe’s head, howling with laughter. Tuffe felt very cold at the thought. The books had always only said the comet missed, and everything was alright in the end.

They didn’t like the idea that a comet could miss, but the world could burn up anyway.

“You’re just trying to frighten me,” grumbled Tuffe.

“Frighten? Frighten?” repeated the Silk Monkey’s Daughter, giggling. “Why would I do that? Why would I need to do that? The world’s horribly frightening anyway!”

“That’s not true,” said Tuffe, thinking of catfish and tulips and grasshoppers and sweet-shops and fillyjonks.

“It is! It is!” said the Silk Monkey’s Daughter. “My mother was eaten by a monster! I saw it happen, yes, I did. I saw the eyes like lamps glowing in the dark. I saw my mother’s frightened face, I saw those big teeth come down and – _chomp!_ ”

“You’re lying,” whimpered Tuffe.

“The monster’s still walking the woods! Hungry, hungry, hungry, always hungry,” she said. “It’s horrible, to be a monster, you’re never ever full.”

Tuffe tried to clamber over to the next branch, but the Silk Monkey’s Daughter tossed another berry at them. They lost their footing and fell to the forest floor, huffing with pain.

The Silk Monkey’s Daughter laughed and leapt to the branches of the next tree. Tuffe stumbled to their feet.

“Wait!” they cried, and ran after her, off the trail, further into the woods.

****

After Snufkin made a pot of coffee and fried some eggs for breakfast, the morning was a quiet one. The Mymble read her book (a novel with the sort of cover that would make a hemulen blush), and Snufkin found a deck of cards in the kitchen drawer and played a spread of solitaire.

It was a pleasant sort of company. The type where one wasn’t expected to entertain, and where quietly getting on with one’s own business wasn’t seen as rude. Snufkin spoke only to mention being a touch hungry. In response, the Mymble tossed him an orange from the fruit bowl, and they settled back into their respective activities.

All was well and peaceful, until there was a sudden rumbling that scattered Snufkin’s cards to the floor and made the Mymble spill hot coffee on her book (lending the heroine a rather sad and soggy look, which was probably not what the illustrator imagined).

“Oh dear,” said the Mymble, wiping coffee away with her sleeve. “I think we’ve run aground.”

“That can’t be right,” said Snufkin, who had the rare trick of knowing distances and directions from their gut alone. “I’m quite certain – it’s too early for us to have arrived in Moominvalley.”

“Oh, I know, sweetie!” replied the Mymble. “Something must be afoot! Let’s investigate - I think we’re due an adventure.”

Snufkin sighed and scooped up the cards, leaving them in an untidy pile on the kitchen table. The point of solitaire wasn’t to win, exactly, but he had been close to finishing the game. Regardless, he followed the Mymble out onto the deck.

It was exactly as the Mymble had predicted – they had run aground. But not on Moominvalley, or any other shore. Instead, the turtle had beached herself onto a small island, composed primarily of a little thicket of trees and a long white beach.

The Mymble hopped down from the house-boat, one paw on her hip, the other holding her umbrella above her head. Snufkin clambered down after her, cautious not to step too heavily on the turtle’s fins. The rain was still coming down.

“Now what’s this, sweetie?” said the Mymble to the turtle. “This isn’t Moominvalley at all!”

The turtle looked at the Mymble and then turned her head away.

“Oh dear,” said the Mymble, shaking her head. “You know, this happens sometimes. When creatures get as old as she does, they can get all sorts of funny notions in their heads.”

“She’s grieving,” said Snufkin.

The Mymble pursed her lips, looking as though she’d much rather not think of anything so sad.

“I suppose she needs a rest,” she said, and then turned away. “Well, let’s give her some peace! We have a whole little island to explore, don’t we?”

They decided to split up and meet back later to see if the turtle had rested well enough. Snufkin did like to explore by himself, but as soon as the Mymble strode off into the tiny jungle, he suddenly felt at a loss. How did one decide to go somewhere? What was he looking for? He’d never needed to ask such questions before, but suddenly it was all he could think about.

Shrugging it off, he started to walk along the beach, paws in the pockets. The rain didn’t bother him – the Mymble had forced an umbrella onto him, but he just let it hang from his paw. It was sunny beside that, even beginning to be warm. The waves washed up and down the shore, across his toes. It was a pretty beach – the type with soft sand, where one could have a comfortable picnic, go hunting for pretty shells to bring home and line up on the windowsill.

He flexed his toes in the warm sand, as the waves came in to wash over him again. There was a gull calling on the breeze, flying far overhead.

As Snufkin continued to walk, he saw something in the distance. A little boat with a white sail and no light, heading towards them over the waves. He stopped, squinting out at it. It was tiny – a hattifattener boat, it had to be. As it came closer, he could see them, sitting clustered together at the prow of their boat, their large blank eyes looking forward.

Snufkin watched as they ran their ship onto the sand. One by one, they slid off the side of the ship and dropped onto the beach, their tiny paws wriggling. Snufkin counted them as they disembarked.

One, two, three, four…

The four of them moved in single file, up the beach and towards the jungle.

“Hold on,” said Snufkin, moving towards them. “Where’s the fifth?”

Everyone knew Hattifatteners travelled in ones, threes, fives, even sevens sometimes. One never saw them travel in even numbers.

The Hattifatteners, of course, did not answer him. Snufkin rushed to their little boat, leaning down to look inside. There was nothing – no little Hattifattener staying behind, or with its tail caught in a loose plank.

“I know there must have been a fifth,” said Snufkin, rushing to catch up with the Hattifatteners. “What happened to it?”

The Hattifatteners only shivered, starting with the one at the front to the one at the back, and then back again. A Hattifattener circuit was, in many ways, one organism with many eyes.

“Of course, more fool me for trying to talk to Hattifatteners,” muttered Snufkin. He knew better than anyone they couldn’t be understood. In fact, he rather suspected they didn’t want to be.

The gull cried overhead again, and Snufkin suddenly became conscious of what a big creature it was. How sharp its eyes and beak were. How, to the gull flying so far up in the sky, the little Hattifatteners might resemble nothing so much as worms sticking from the ground.

He decided he would follow the Hattifatteners for a spell. Just to be certain of them.

****

Tuffe was lost. The Silk Monkey’s Daughter was much too fast for them to keep up with, and far more agile than Tuffe could ever hope to be. The ground underneath was crackling with tree-speak, but Tuffe had never learned to understand it, could never ask them for help as their ancestors would have. Besides, they were not one of the forest’s woodies.

They sat down on a tree root and wiped their face, wishing they had a handkerchief. Their stomach gurgled, and they placed their paws on it. They had not eaten breakfast, nor dinner the evening before. They had simply been too excited, relishing the prospect of Snufkin being so close.

“Now you’ve spoiled it,” they told themselves. “You were close, but you lost your head and your way and you should be ashamed.”

Telling themselves off didn’t make them feel any better. Something dropped from the tree above – another berry, too hard and unripe to eat, but Tuffe suddenly noticed something else growing out of the trunk. Frills of pale brown mushrooms, growing in a long strip up the side.

It was not like tinned beans with black pepper at all. Or even like sweets or jam sandwiches.

Tuffe sniffed the mushrooms and then jerked back, gagging.

Their stomach groaned again.

“Come along, be brave,” they muttered to themselves. Carefully, they cut a small section of mushroom away with their claw. The inside was off-white, fibrous. They popped it into their mouth and swallowed. It was bitter. It was though they felt it, all the way from the back of their mouth, down their gullet, into their stomach. They shuddered from their shoulders to the tip of their tail.

It wasn’t enough, though. Their body was still crying out for more food. 

“It’s not so bad,” they told themselves and cut off some more. With every mouthful, the taste became less sharp, and other flavours began to bloom through – a nutty sweetness that released as they chewed.

Finally full, they settled back down, huddling against the trunk of the tree to stay out of the rain, which was coming down thicker and harder.

Now they had eaten, everything seemed much easier to manage. They needed to find the Silk Monkey’s Daughter, first and foremost, and get Snufkin’s letter’s back. And then it was the business of finding their way out of the woods and to Moominvalley. The latter would be easy, Tuffe was sure, if they could manage the former.

Something snapped behind them. They jumped and turned, only in time to see leaves move. A low growl boomed through the trees. Tuffe stepped back, their tail raising high. There were no monsters in Moominvalley, they knew. The Silk Monkey’s Daughter had only told horrible lies to frighten them.

The growling grew closer, and closer still, until finally there was a breath, hot and damp on their neck.

“Little woodie…” said the monster.

Tuffe ran, as fast as they could, hurtling through branches. They ran and ran until their eyes pricked with tears and their gut ached.

“You saw it, didn’t you!”

The Silk Monkey’s Daughter emerged from the branches above Tuffe, after they finally stopped, gasping and shaking. 

“Isn’t its breath horrible?” said the Silk Monkey’s Daughter, hanging by her tail so she could chatter in Tuffe’s ear. “Isn’t it huge? Isn’t it ugly?”

“It talked to me,” said Tuffe.

It suddenly occurred to them how odd was that. What sort of monster talked to its food, they wondered? The Silk Monkey’s Daughter laughed.

“Oh yes, oh yes,” she said. “The monster likes to hear how frightened you are before it eats you. My mother pleaded and cried, but that just made her tastier.”

“I don’t want to hear about something so horrible!” cried Tuffe, shaking their head and pressing their paws over their ears.

“More horrible was the crunch-crunch-crunch of her bones,” said the Silk Monkey’s Daughter, so loudly Tuffe couldn’t block her out, swinging back and forth by her tail. “Horrible, horrible!”

Tuffe saw that she was holding the cradle between her paws. She saw them looking and smiled.

“Give it back!” she said, before they could, and laughed, hopping up onto a branch. “What is it?”

“It’s my ship,” said Tuffe proudly.

“Your ship!” howled the Silk Monkey, laughing. “Your ship, your ship!”

With that, she punctured Tuffe’s pride entirely, and they shrank, feeling smaller than ever.

“Please, it’s – you can keep it if you give me back my letters. They’re from Snufkin.”

The Silk Monkey’s Daughter didn’t look terribly impressed by this. Tuffe tried something else.

“He knew the Moomintroll.”

“The Moomintroll!” she crowed, excited again. “He saved my mother’s life! My mother told me the story. I don’t remember a snufkin.”

“Snufkin was there,” said Tuffe, with great certainty.

“But the Moomintroll was the hero,” insisted the Silk Monkey’s Daughter. “The Snufkin probably got burned up by the comet.”

“No! Surely you must know him,” said Tuffe. “Everyone knows Snufkin, he’s very important. He walks through here every winter.”

“The monster probably ate him too!” said the Silk Monkey’s Daughter happily.

“No, he’s too clever!”

“I saw it!” she said. “He was alone in the woods, crying all boo-hoo-hoo, and the monster came and snapped him up. Crunch-crunch-crunch.”

“That wouldn’t happen,” said Tuffe, even as they began to get frightened. “He’s too fast and clever, the monster would never catch him.”

“He was sick! He was too sick to run away,” she said, and threw a berry at their head. “He’d fallen and hurt himself, all alone in the woods.”

“No –“

“The monster chased him until he was too tired to run, and gobbled him up, just like that.”

Tuffe couldn’t take it any longer. They grabbed a stone from the ground and hurled it at the Silk Monkey’s Daughter, as hard as they could. It didn’t come anywhere near – hitting against the trunk of the tree, just above the roots – but they grabbed another and threw it again.

Her eyes widened, for a moment frightened, and then she laughed again.

“They’re upset, oooh, poor little woodie, poor little Snufkin, boo-hoo-hoo!”

“Just go away!” they shouted, throwing another stone.

“Just go away, just go away!” she repeated, swinging away in the branches, the cradle hanging from one of her paws. Tuffe sank down at the foot of the tree and buried their face in their paws.

****

The Hattifatteners walked through the woods in a wiggling, nonsensical path. Sometimes they looped back on themselves or went in circles, but they never stopped, and they resolutely kept their round eyes forward. If Snufkin stumbled over a tree branch or struggled to squeeze himself between two trees they went between, they didn’t hesitate, not even to glance back. That was the very nature of a Hattifattener, he supposed.

It had been years since he’d last seen them. It had been late summer, a late evening that had turned, quite accidentally, into an early morning. It had been happening a lot, that tsummer. They would go for a swim or a walk, and then it would be sunrise. They lost track of the time so easily together. Snufkin had been stretching himself out at the mouth of the cave, drying off in the early light after his long swim.

Moomintroll had been in the water but came to rest next to Snufkin, folding his arms against the stone bank. The morning sun was shining through the thinnest part of his ears.

There was something he wanted to say, Snufkin could tell. That had been happening a lot recently too.

In the silence, they had both spotted the little boat floating above the surface of the water. One Hattifattener at the helm.

“Pappa’s been in one of his moods, lately,” Moomintroll had said.

It wasn’t anything Snufkin didn’t know. Everyone knew, really, at this point. Anyone could step into that house and feel the difference – how it had turned from warm and welcoming, to somewhere one needed to tread as quietly as possible.

Snufkin only hummed, just to show he was listening. He never knew what to say on this topic. Who really understood fathers, after all? Moomintroll looked away, watching the Hattifattener boat bobbing on the surface of the waves.

“I think he’s going to run away again.”

The thinnest part of his ear glowed pink in the morning light. It looked soft.

“He comes back,” muttered Snufkin. “That’s the important thing.”

“I’m not sure. It feels different.”

Snufkin felt himself being looked at again. Not admired in the way of fawning creeps that hid among the tall grass, but being seen, from the water in his eyelashes to the grit under his nails.

“Many things do, these days.”

Something was emerging in the narrow space between them. Like a gem formed deep underground. It had been there for a long time, but it was getting harder not to look, now. Every time Snufkin thought about it, he could only wonder how it was possible to be so happy but so frightened at the same time.

When Snufkin felt warm fingers lace with his, he had realised all at once it was no good. It had grown too big.

Moomintroll saw the glitter, but not the size. Not the danger. He didn’t understand the burden something so wonderful could be. How many jealous creatures, with teeth like ice and eyes that never blinked, wouldn’t want to see them happy like this.

At first it looked like the Hattifattener was coming towards Moominvalley, but then the little boat’s course changed, as though the current had pulled it away at the last moment.

It would be autumn the next time he woke, Snufkin decided then, even as he closed his eyes and felt soft fingers against his jaw. After this, he had thought, not knowing what was to come, it would be autumn. It would be time to move on. So he would. He would pack up his campsite and he would leave, swift and sudden and without pause to look over his shoulder. That would be the easiest way to do it, he decided.

That was the last time he saw Moomintroll.

In front of him, on the island in the sea, the Hattifatteners had finally stopped their march. Snufkin almost stumbled over them, only just catching himself in time.

He wasn’t sure why, but he felt certain they had reached the very centre of the island. There was a glade amidst the trees, and something laying in the grass, grown over by vines. The Hattifatteners all stared at it, but none moved to investigate it further than that.

“Well then,” said Snufkin, beginning to find the Hattifattener’s insistence upon being quiet and mysterious tiresome. “Funny thing, to come all this way, and not take a proper look.”

Naturally, the Hattifatteners only shivered, as if they were receiving some current of electricity. Snufkin stepped over them to investigate the thing. It was about the shape and size of a coffin.

The thought made Snufkin freeze, his paw hovering above the surface of it. He felt the Hattifattener’s eyes and had the odd sense they were expectant. Which was nonsense, of course. Hattifatteners didn’t have such feeling.

He let his paw drop onto the object. It was hard, wooden. He felt the surface of the wood with his fingertips and felt a plaque there, in metal. There was a name embossed on the surface, two dates.

“You shouldn’t have any business with this,” he told the Hattifatteners, smoothing the vines back over it and standing. “This isn’t for you.”

The Hattifatteners continued to stare at it, their paws rustling. Snufkin watched, dread opening deep in his stomach.

He’d never believed the rumours. Of Hattifatteners living a wicked life – that was simply something people said when they didn’t understand something. Anything unusual seemed wicked to some.

Watching the Hattifatteners crawl closed to the coffin though, he felt a prickle of horror and wondered if there was perhaps some truth to it.

He stepped in front of them, stamping his foot hard. The Hattifatteners jumped back, briefly, but continued, air shimmering between their paws.

“Now, don’t you disturb this!” he said. “I’m opposed to very little, but I’m opposed to this!”

A spark caught his ankle and he jumped back with a yelp. The Hattifatteners reached the coffin, standing so close they could lean forward, just a little, and touch the tops of their heads against it. They didn’t, of course, such sentimentalism is not for Hattifatteners.

But they didn’t disturb it. They simply stood, wriggling their paws, letting the rain fall on them. Snufkin suddenly felt wretched for assuming they would do any wickedness, but he knew it was no use apologising.

After a moment, the Hattifatteners turned and formed another single-file line. They began to march away, in their single-minded manner.

All but one.

One Hattifattener stayed behind, standing by the coffin and staring out at nothing, letting the rain soak it. Snufkin wasn’t sure if it was the Hattifattener standing at the front or the back of the line – they had all gotten muddled and looked quite identical besides.

They were leaving it behind, he realised. Hattifatteners were only ever supposed to travel in odd numbers, after all. He wanted to cry out, tell them to come back and retrieve the poor thing, but it would be useless.

The left-behind Hattifattener crawled onto the top of the coffin and stood alone, its eyes tilted up at the falling rain.

****

Tuffe was certain they’d be lost in the woods forever. That booming growl was still following them, leaves rustling in the distance, but they were beginning to be too tired to run. Yet they couldn’t lie down to rest. The monster would eat them then, for certain. All they could do was trudge on, tired and filthy, the bare dinner of mushrooms sitting thin at the bottom of their stomach.

They were almost ready to sink to the ground, exhausted, and defeated when a shrill cry cut through the forest.

“Help! Help, help! Please!”

Despite their exhaustion, Tuffe stood. Above them, hanging from a branch, was the Silk Monkey’s Daughter, her eyes wide and all the fur on her tail sticking up.

“Help! It’s my mother! My mother! She’s fallen in the antlion’s trap!”

“I thought you said your mother was eaten by a monster,” said Tuffe.

“Can’t you tell when people are fibbing! I only meant to scare you a little,” she said, and laughed. “But please! My mother!”

It sounded like it could be another horrible fib. After all, who laughed if their mother really was in such terrible danger? Tuffe was tempted to sit with their arms folded, insist they would be tricked and teased no more, and let the Silk Monkey’s Daughter grapple.

“Please, nobody else will help!” she said. “My mother, my mother!”

“Why won’t anybody help?” said Tuffe, looking away.

“They don’t believe me! My mother! My poor mother!” she cried.

Yet what if the little monkey was telling the truth? If her mother really was in terrible danger, and she had nobody to turn to? What was being tricked again, against that?

So Tuffe stood and nodded. The Silk Monkey’s Daughter bounced on the branch and leapt to the next, turning back to make sure Tuffe was followed. Tuffe followed as quickly as they could, small and tired as they were.

The Silk Monkey’s Daughter led them through the trees, to a clearing where the forest floor was soft and loose beneath their bare feet. All at once Tuffe heard the weak yelping from below – there was a pit in the forest floor, dug out of the loose soil. Clinging desperately to the side was the Silk Monkey, buried up to her neck, just her fingers up to her knuckles poking out of the sand.

“Mother! Mother!” cried the Silk Monkey’s Daughter, and Tuffe had to grab her tail to stop her throwing herself in the pit.

“My daughter! Help, help, help!” shouted the Silk Monkey, the loose soil dragging her further into the pit.

Tuffe stared, panic bubbling deep in their chest. There was no sign of the antlion yet – perhaps sleeping deeper beneath the pit – but with the noise the monkeys were making, it was only a matter of time.

Tuffe looked about for a prop. If this was a play, there would be a good long stick or a set of thick vines hanging about. Yet this wasn’t the theatre – Tuffe saw nothing of the like.

“Help help help!” went the Silk Monkey’s horrible cries, as she thrashed and was pulled deeper into the pit.

“My ship,” said Tuffe, looking to the Silk Monkey’s Daughter.

“My mother, my mother!” she cried. “Help my mother!”

“I’m trying, you have to listen to me,” said Tuffe desperately. “I need my ship.”

“My mother!”

“Go get my ship!”

Startled by their raised voice, the Silk Monkey’s Daughter stopped, and then sprang up into the trees. After a moment she returned, dropping down besides Tuffe with the cradle held between her two paws. Tuffe instantly started to untie the rope from around the cradle.

“Tie this to a tree,” they said, thrusting one end of the rope into her paws. The Silk Monkey’s Daughter only stared at them, bug-eyed with panic, so poor Tuffe took it back and looped it around the trunk of a slim tree, tying it as tight as they could manage with their paws so damp and shaky.

“Grab onto this!” called Tuffe, throwing the other end into the pit. At first, the rope landed too far from the Silk Monkey to be of any help at all. This made both the monkeys howl with terror, and Tuffe had to pull it in and throw it again. This time, the end of the rope fell near the Silk Monkey’s face. With the fingers still poking out of the soil, she grabbed onto it. Tuffe could see her shoulders strain as she tried to pull herself out, but the soil trap was pulling her down too harshly. She could not make it on her own.

Tuffe grabbed onto the other end and pulled with all their might, but their meagre weight did nothing. The Silk Monkey’s Daughter pranced about in a great panic, shouting “My mother, my mother!” and being no help at all.

“You have to help!” shouted Tuffe, as loudly as they could manage. They leaned over and seized her paw, pulling her over. They placed her paws around the rope, showed her how to dig her feet into the ground. It was like pulling up a prop at the theatre, Tuffe thought, exactly the same principles.

“Heave-ho!” cried Tuffe and pulled with all their might. The Silk Monkey’s Daughter pulled too, but out of time, and a bit limply. Nothing much happened.

“Oh, it’s hopeless, my mother, my mother!”

“Try again, at the same time as me. Heave-ho!” cried Tuffe. This time, the two of them pulled at the same time. In the pit, the Silk Monkey’s wrists came out of the soil.

“It’s working, it’s working!” cried the Silk Monkey’s Daughter, so delighted the dropped the rope.

“Don’t stop now,” said Tuffe, so sharply she picked up the rope again at once. “Heave-ho!”

They pulled again, and out came the Silk Monkey’s shoulders. She looked up at them, eyes bright, and for a moment it seemed like it would all be okay, and then she let out a terrible cry. Tuffe looked beyond to see a pair of yellow eyes peering from the bottom of the pit, and a mouth twisted into a snarl, revealing sharp teeth.

“My dinner,” growled the Antlion, and grabbed onto the Silk Monkey with their claws.

“Keep pulling,” said Tuffe, fearing the Silk Monkey’s Daughter would get frightened and run. Strangely, she didn’t, only let out a little whimper. The two of them pulled with all their might, but the Antlion was stronger still, and the Silk Monkey was being dragged further into the soil.

Two children, realised Tuffe, were no match for a fully-grown antlion.

For a despairing moment, it seemed as though there was no hope at all – the Silk Monkey would be swallowed under and chomped to bits, leaving her little daughter orphaned. And as nasty as the Silk Monkey’s Daughter was, Tuffe couldn’t for a second believe she deserved that.

And then Tuffe heard a booming growl and saw the shake of the nearby leaves. And they had a completely mad idea.

“Hold the rope,” said Tuffe, dropping the line. “Keep pulling, no matter what.”

Dashing on all fours, they ran into the bushes, following the sound of the growls. Whatever was in there retreated further into the gloom. Tuffe could hear the heavy thud of paws, claws scraping against the forest floor.

“Please, we need help.”

“Why should I?” snarled the monster. Tuffe’s fur stood on end.

“I don’t think you’re really a monster,” said Tuffe, voice trembling. “If you were, you wouldn’t act so shy.”

The creature in the dark seemed to consider this a moment.

“I just wanted help,” said the creature. “The Silk Monkey’s Daughter has been teasing me and throwing things at me all winter; I haven’t been able to hibernate at all. I wanted someone to make her stop.”

“She’s silly,” said Tuffe firmly. “But she’s only little, and she needs help.”

The creature seemed to consider this a second longer, but then they stepped forward, into the thin light falling through the canopy. A great brown bear, with shaggy fur and bright eyes and round ears, stood before Tuffe, resting her huge paws on her round stomach.

“I thought about coming to help anyway,” she said. “I just wasn’t sure it wasn’t another trick.”

“It’s not,” said Tuffe.

“Very well,” said the Brown Bear, dropping down onto all fours. “We haven’t the time to wait.”

The two of them rushed back, bursting from the undergrowth. The Silk Monkey’s Daughter was still clinging to the rope, but the Silk Monkey was further into the pit than ever. Her eyes went wide when she saw the Brown Bear. From within the pit, the Antlion hissed.

“The monster!” crowed the Silk Monkey’s Daughter, expression panicked.

“That’s _cheating_ ,” snarled the Antlion.

The Brown Bear looked at the situation carefully and then took a few steps forward. In one great arm she scooped up the Silk Monkey’s Daughter, and with the other she reached into the Antlion’s trap and plucked the Silk Monkey from the soil, easy as pulling up a turnip.

“Give me back my dinner,” said the Antlion, and tried to crawl up the side of the pit. Tuffe stood at the edge of the pit. The Antlion hesitated – one couldn't very well upset a forest by eating her Woodies, after all.

“Hmph, keep her, she’s all bone and fuss,” said the Antlion, and disappeared further into the pit.

“Mother! My mother!”

The Brown Bear put down both monkeys. They sprung into each other’s arms, cuddling one another close.

“Little daughter! You were as brave as the Moomintroll!” crowed the Silk Monkey and began to laugh. Her daughter joined in, and soon the two were hooting and cackling, rolling about the forest floor in glee. Tuffe watched, standing next to the Brown Bear with their tail lashing.

Finally, the two monkeys managed to calm down, although the littler remained clinging to her mother’s chest, and then both of them looked at Tuffe and the bear. The Brown Bear shuffled a little, as though trying to hide behind Tuffe.

Tuffe realised that poor Brown Bear, as large as she was, hadn’t the courage to say what needed to be said. Feeling awkward, they cleared their throat.

“You mustn’t torment the Brown Bear anymore,” said Tuffe importantly. “She isn’t a monster, and she needs to sleep.”

“I was only having a little fun!” cried the Silk Monkey’s Daughter.

“It wasn’t kind,” they retorted.

“Oh, very well! She saved my mother,” she replied and nuzzled her face into the Silk Monkey’s neck. “Mother! I’m hungry! I want peanuts!”

“And peanuts you shall have, brave little dot!” said the Silk Monkey, who seemed to have forgotten about Tuffe and the Brown Bear’s involvement in the rescue altogether. Tuffe opened their mouth, but the Brown Bear rested a claw gently against their shoulder, shaking her head.

“Brave soldier, tell me the whole story of how you came to save me!” she said, shifting her daughter onto her back and springing into the trees.

Tuffe watched them go, listening as the Silk Monkey’s Daughter told the tale of her daring rescue. With the help of the Moomintroll, of course.

The Brown Bear shook her head.

“Strange family,” she said, with great dignity. “But I dare say they shall leave me alone now. Thank you, little Woodie.”

Feeling nervous to be left alone with the Brown Bear, Tuffe did a little bow.

“You know,” said the Brown Bear, looking at Tuffe carefully. “It’s been a long time since the forest had Woodies. Just sprouted up, did you? You did a splendid job, if so.”

Tuffe shook their head.

“I’m passing through.”

“Passing through?” said the Brown Bear. “Why, there’s barely anywhere that passes through here these days. Where are you going?”

“Moominvalley,” said Tuffe, and then remembered how lost they were. They had managed to retrieve their cradle, but they were deeper into the woods than ever. They bit down on their lip hard.

“Oh, no, don’t look so downcast, little one,” said the Brown Bear. “How about I take you the rest of the way? It wouldn’t be difficult.”

Tuffe perked up, tail standing on edge. The Brown Bear smiled and lowered herself onto the ground.

“Just climb onto my back, you look like you only weigh as much as a sausage,” she said. Tuffe hesitated, and then looked back at the cradle. She followed their gaze, and then sighed.

“Well, it isn’t very dignified,” she said, and then wiggled the little tuft of her tail, “but I suppose you can tie that to my tail if you’d like to take it along.”

****

Snufkin followed the Hattifatteners back out of the forest. A part of him wanted to stay with the little Hattifattener left behind. Or to try and coax it, somehow, to follow the rest of its circuit. Yet he had travelled far enough in the world to know when something was important and shouldn’t be interfered, even if he didn’t understand it. Knowing that didn’t alleviate the odd heaviness to his heart, though, as he glanced back to that lone Hattifattener, standing vigil on the stranger’s lonely coffin.

As they emerged back onto the beach, the Hattifatteners made their way straight back to their boat, not hesitating a moment. Not even to admire the ocean waves or comb the beach. He supposed they had done what they had come to do. Snufkin watched them board their little boat – one, two, three – and then with a crackle of electricity between them, they set sail again. Three Hattifatteners in a boat and all was right with the world, he supposed.

He wanted to play a tune, but there was nothing in his pockets. He hoped he’d still remember it when there was, again.

He walked further along the beach, back to where the turtle was basking in the sand. The Mymble was emerging from the woods too, carrying something under her arm. A round melon, almost as big as Snufkin was tall.

Snufkin paused, watching her approach the turtle.

“Here you are, sweetie! Thought you could do with a snack. We have to get moving soon, after all!” she said, placing the melon in front of her. The turtle opened one eye and then craned her neck forward to nibble at the melon.

“That’s a poor substitute for lost children,” said Snufkin, before he could help himself. The Mymble looked up, giving him an odd look. She gestured him to join her under the umbrella. The two of them stood, watching the turtle eat, the rain pattering hard above them.

As they watched, a few of the remaining little turtles crawled out of the ocean to join their mother, coming to try a bit of the melon.

“There’s still the other little ones to mind,” said the Mymble suddenly. “She hasn’t the time to mope, even if she’d like to.”

“It still seems heartless,” said Snufkin.

“Well, maybe so. But I’m afraid the world doesn’t stop for heartbreak.”

They stood, watching as one of the little turtles pressed themselves close to their mother’s side.

“Oh, we’re getting soaked out here! Look at you, you’re wet through,” she said, resting a paw on his wet hair. “Let’s get you inside and warmed up. We should set sail soon if we want to be in Moominvalley in time for breakfast.”

Snufkin nodded and followed the Mymble as she led them back inside. Perhaps, at long last, he was almost home.


	9. The Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're almost done!

Snufkin woke before sunrise. There was nothing to wake him – the sea was calm and quiet, and the rain was pattering pleasantly on the roof of the house-boat. He simply woke, curled onto his side, blanket tucked around him. His gaze fell on the skirting board, the drawing half-hidden by the vanity. His heart clenched.

He sat up and walked out onto the deck. The rain was too heavy to see into the distance – they might have been hours from Moominvalley, they might have been moments away. He leaned against the railing, breathing in the cold air.

Out in the quiet morning, Snufkin let himself imagine coming home to Moominvalley. He imagined cutting the grass for his tent by the bridge, laying out the tarp and setting up the tent. He could see into Moominhouse from his tent, the dark windows still covered for hibernation. He would sit on the bridge and play his mouth-organ. As morning came to Moominvalley, rich with the scent of daffodils and snowdrops, the highest window in Moominhouse would light up.

It didn’t matter how much Snufkin told himself that Moominhouse stood empty. It didn’t matter how unlikely it was, he would imagine it anyway, and trick himself into believing it was possible. And then the wind would change and the rain would lash against his cheeks, and he’d remember himself, remember the past two long years, and be ashamed. He’d swear to be more sensible, knowing it was a promise he wouldn’t be able to keep.

The sun rose, but the Groke’s song continued, out over the endless waves.

****

Tuffe slept the night curled into the Brown Bear’s chest, tucked under an outcrop of rock. As keen as Tuffe had been to get to Moominvalley immediately, they simply couldn’t keep their eyes open another minute. The Brown Bear caught a fish from the river and scraped out the meat for Tuffe’s supper. They ate it raw, wondering how they’d lived on nothing but beans for so long, and then they two of them had curled up tight away from the rain.

The Brown Bear’s fur was thick and warm, smelling of rich pine needles.

Tuffe realised they hadn’t even checked if Snufkin’s letters were still in the cradle. The thought was a bite of guilt at their chest. They closed their eyes, tried to imagine the rough texture of his old coat, the scent of coffee and tobacco, but it was blurred now, like ink left out in the rain. How well had they ever remembered any of it?

“Can’t you sleep, little one?” asked the Brown Bear, eyes still closed. Tuffe shook their head, brushing their nose against the Brown Bear’s neck. She laughed, a low rumble in her throat that Tuffe felt more than heard.

“You would make a good forest Woody,” she said.

It was an offer to stay. Tuffe could recognise them now. They weren’t sure whether people had started being kind to them recently, or they’d just started being able to see it.

Either way, Tuffe shook their head, closing their eyes again. The rain continued to fall.

****

“Land ahoy!”

The coast of Moominvalley had finally come into the view through the rain. Snufkin saw the dock, the tiny cone of Moominpappa’s boathouse. There was the jagged line of the Lonely Mountains, the expanse of green pines that Snufkin usually walked through, watching the snow thaw and the yellow shoots of daffodils push through the earth.

Snufkin felt sick, watching it come closer. He had half a mind to grab the Mymble’s arm and tell her to steer them away – that this was all a terrible mistake. He didn’t want to see the little creature Toft’s disappointment, as he saw the new arrival to Moominvalley was just old Snufkin. Perhaps it wasn’t worth the risk that Moominhouse lay dark and empty still.

If he never went back, after all, he could easily imagine Moomintroll was still waiting for him. He would never have to learn otherwise.

“Cheer up, pumpkin,” said the Mymble, folding her spyglass closed and popping it into her pocket. “You’re almost home.”

Snufkin grunted and bit down on his pipe. The Mymble grabbed the long pole propped up against the side of the house and prodded the turtle in the side, urging her towards the boathouse.

“Hold on, sweetie!” said the Mymble, and Snufkin just managed to grab onto the railing in time. The turtle swept her fins back and surged forward on a great wave. The force of it just about lifted Snufkin into the air, and as the turtle slid onto the beach, he landed back down with a thump.

“Excellent job, sweetie, top notch!” cried the Mymble down to the turtle, running to throw down the ladder so they could disembark. She was down in a second, as always surprisingly nimble considering her size.

Snufkin hesitated at the top of the ladder, paws resting on top of the railing. The Mymble looked up at him, the crow's feet by her eyes deepening as she smiled. She didn’t say anything. Snufkin was grateful for that.

He swung over the railing and climbed the ladder down. Perhaps soon he’d stand at the foot of Moominhouse and whistle up to the window and see someone climb down for him.

“Under the umbrella with me, sweetie, you’ll catch a cold,” said the Mymble, opening her umbrella over them. “Off we go! Hopefully Moominmamma will have some hot cocoa for us when we arrive.”

****

Tuffe rode the rest of the way on the Brown Bear’s shoulders. They didn’t speak much, the Brown Bear being a rather taciturn creature, and Tuffe thinking only of Moominvalley, of the spring thaw and all the wonderful things that could come with it.

They finally emerged from the trees, standing at the top of a shallow hill. The valley stretched out below, green and white and quiet. Tuffe could see the snaking line of the river, the mountains still pale with winter snow. If they squinted through the rain, they were certain they could see the shape of a house, tall and with a pointed roof. Tuffe’s heart quickened.

“Can you make your way from here, little one?” asked the Brown Bear. “I don’t like being out in the open.”

“Yes. Thank you,” said Tuffe. The Brown Bear crouched to let Tuffe climb down her side and untie the cradle from her tail. They put their paw under the pillow, running their thumb over Snufkin’s letters. They could show Snufkin them when he arrived. The Brown Bear watched quietly as Tuffe rearranged their things and prepared to depart.

“Best of luck,” said the Brown Bear.

“You too,” said Tuffe, with a curtsey, because it felt the right thing to do in this situation. The Brown Bear dipped her head in a bow and returned into the woods, quickly disappearing in the murk. Tuffe turned and stared down at the valley, one paw gripping the rope attached to their cradle.

It was not far now.

****

Everything was the same, thought Snufkin, as they followed the path from the beach to Moominhouse. The entire world had moved, but here was Moominvalley coast, with the cave in the distance. There were the same trees Snufkin had walked through on so many nights. Here was the dirty path, well-trodden by the same paws, that one could take. There was the river, the same fork, the same fish making their way home for spring.

In that instant, Snufkin became certain that everything had finally become right. The earthquake and tsunami…perhaps it had all been the world’s way of shaking things back to where they should lie, the way one sometimes only needs to rattle the reel on one’s fishing rod to get it working correctly again.

Moominhouse grew larger in the distance, dark in the spring rain, but for a light at the top.

Forgetting the rain, Snufkin rushed forward.

“Snufkin!” cried the Mymble, but the wind caught onto the umbrella and pulled her back. Snufkin paid her no heed, running up towards Moominhouse, the light winking at the top window. He let out a whistle, a happy noise the rain drowned out until he finally reached Moominhouse.

Yet as he drew closer, he noticed more and more amiss. The house was swaying in the wind in a way it never had before, and there was something uneven about it. The veranda was gone, he realised. The veranda, where people had drunk tea and Snufkin had sat and played his mouth-organ on summer nights, it was gone.

Snufkin stopped at the foot of the house, and his eyes went wide.

The other side of the house, faced away from the sea, had collapsed. It looked like nothing so much as an opened dolls house – showing the half of rooms. All around Snufkin was debris, broken boards that had fallen, shattered plates and furniture.

At the top was the wreckage that had once been Moomintroll’s room. The light in the window was the sun, reflecting on shattered glass. Nothing more.

“Oh dear,” said the Mymble as she finally arrived, holding the umbrella over Snufkin. “It must have been the earthquake…”

“We should make certain nobody was in the house when it fell,” said Snufkin, trying to sound brisk and business-like. “And then cover what we can with a tarp.”

The Mymble tried to put a paw on Snufkin’s shoulder but he shrugged her off. He couldn’t bear the pity. How shameful of him to expect anything but this. A silly child, getting carried away with romantic notions.

The Mymble looked as though she was about to say something, when there was a sudden clattering, like something falling from a high shelf.

“There’s someone here,” said Snufkin, walking around the house and towards the source of the noise. Stumbling to their feet in the debris was a little Woody, with brown fur and white hair. As soon as they set eyes on Snufkin they froze, tail standing on end and eyes widening.

“Tuffe?” said Snufkin.

The little Woody stared at him, backing away a little as Snufkin spoke their name. That was their name, wasn’t it? It had been so very long.

So long, he thought, his stomach sinking and a cold wave of guilt washing over him. He hadn’t written. Not since that November. He had promised something as small as a birthday letter each year, and he had forgotten.

Tuffe just stared, holding their tail between their little paws. They looked frightened.

Why wouldn’t they be, Snufkin realised. He looked frightening.

“Why – “ he began, and then cleared his throat. “I didn’t see the theatre as we came in.”

Tuffe didn’t take their eyes off him, twisting their tail in their fingers in a way that was much too familiar. They shook their head.

“You didn’t come with the theatre?” said Snufkin, eyes widening. He had thought all the little woodies were with Emma and the theatre people. Although, if the theatre had sunk, he wouldn’t be any the wiser. He pushed the thought of mind.

Tuffe shook their head again. Snufkin’s paw went in his pocket for his pipe, but he had left the tobacco pouch aboard the ship. He put it in his mouth and chewed the stem anyway.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” said Tuffe.

So this was no coincidence – the little creature had come all this way to find him, for one reason or another. Snufkin couldn’t fathom why, after such a long silence and even longer apart. He’d think the little woodies would have forgotten about him altogether.

“Terribly happy, silk-muzzle,” he said because Tuffe looked too sad to say anything else. “But – oh, what is it you’re _wearing_?”

Tuffe looked down at their apron.

“Work uniform,” they said.

“Work uniform!” repeated Snufkin, folding his arms. “Hmph! You’ve clearly been living like some sort of hooligan in my absence…and what is that you’re dragging around?”

Tuffe looked behind, at the cradle they were dragging around on the end of a long rope.

“My ship.”

“Your ship,” said Snufkin, eyebrows rising. “My, my.”

“Nuusu?” called the Mymble, turning the corner. Tuffe jumped at the sight of her, but she broke into an enormous smile. “Now who is this little chap?”

“A woodie I met a while ago,” said Snufkin quickly, biting down harder on his pipe. “Have you found anything?”

“Not a sign of the family,” she said.

“Did you look upstairs?” he asked.

“Can’t get up there, sweetie,” said the Mymble, gesturing at the destroyed stairs. Snufkin went up to look more closely at them, his arms folded.

“I suppose not,” he grunted. It was much too high for even the Mymble to climb up.

“Oh, I think I could lift you up there though!” she said brightly.

“That –“

Before Snufkin could protest, she scooped him up and held him over her head.

“Come on, sweetie, stretch your arms!”

Conscious of Tuffe staring wide-eyed at him, Snufkin stretched up and scrabbled to find purchase on the steps hanging over. As soon as he got hold, the Mymble pushed him up by the rump (ignoring his indignant grunt), until he managed to drag himself up.

“Well done, dear!” shouted the Mymble. Snufkin stood, dusting himself off. The upper floor was in much a dreadful state as the room below. Moominpappa’s room had entirely collapsed in on itself – Snufkin imagined he couldn’t get in. Mamma’s room and the study were slightly more intact, but there was nothing in there of interest. Pappa’s typewriter was gone, but it had been gone a long while.

The stairs up to Moomintroll’s room were crumbling away as well, but not as badly as the one below. Snufkin carefully stretched a foot out, testing his weight on it, listening to Moominhouse creak and moan in response. The stairs seemed sturdy. Carefully, he crept up them, avoiding the more dubious steps, dropping to all fours to spread out his weight more evenly. He coughed, breathing in woodchips and dust.

The door to Moomintroll’s room had fallen off the hinges, a crack running across the middle. The room was barely intact – just three walls, the last having fallen apart. The rain was coming through. Moomintroll’s bed sat in the corner, one leg collapsed, the sheets soaked.

The ladder lay below the shattered window, coiled tight and long untouched. There were none of the things Snufkin associated with Moomintroll in the room – none of the little drawings he kept on the wall, the letters from friends, letters from Snufkin. There was a book on the floor, turned dark with rainwater and leaking ink onto the floor.

Snufkin crouched and picked it up, expecting perhaps one of Moomintroll’s poetry books. He turned the pages, trying to find writing that wasn’t spoiled.

 _On the living habits of the Nummulite_ …

Snufkin closed the book. Without a word, he headed back to the second floor, and then towards where the stairs lay destroyed. The Mymble waited for him, reaching up as if to catch him. With a grunt, he ignored her, hanging off the edge of the stairs and dropping down with a thump that sent up a cloud of dust. He stood, brushing himself off.

“Nobody,” he said. “The house is quite empty.”

The three of them stood in uncertain silence for a moment, the rain pattering on the half-destroyed roof, further soaking the house.

There could be a letter, Snufkin thought. There hadn’t been a latter last spring, but there may be one now. He headed towards the mailbox.

“Nuusu, sweetie, where are you off to?” asked the Mymble. Snufkin didn’t answer. It had been humiliating enough to insist there would be a letter and find none once. And that had been in front of a houseful of perfect utter strangers. To be so disappointed in front of someone who knew him would be intolerable.

He went down to the river and then stopped. The river was swollen with the rain, frothing at the banks and ready to floor.

The old bridge was gone. The wooden arch had broken in two, swept away by earthquakes and floods and who knew what else had befallen the Valley over winter. All that remained was the first few steps of the bridge, heading to nowhere.

“Oh, the post-box!” cried the Mymble. Snufkin broke out of his trance, rushing over to the Mymble’s side. The post-box had fallen and slid down the bank, half-buried in mud. The water rushed past it, even whip of the tide threatening to drag it in and pull it out to sea.

The Mymble wasted no time. She kicked off her heels and slid down into the mud, grabbing the post-box with her paws. With a grunt, she tried to haul it up. Bare-footed, Snufkin stumbled down the bank and attempted to help, for what little strength he could offer. The box was heavy, sucked down into the mud and pulled by the river currents, and neither of them could find purchase with their feet.

The Mymble grunted and wrenched it out to the mud, but too fast. Snufkins tumbled and fell forward into her, she dropped it and it slid further down the bank, only saved from falling into the water by her quick movements.

As Snufkin righted himself, he felt something slap against his shoulder blade. He down – a rope had fallen from his back into the mud. The little Woody, Tuffe, stood at the top of the bank, holding the other end of the rope in their small paws.

“Hm,” said Snufkin, surprised. “Clever one, aren’t you?”

He grabbed the rope and passed it to the Mymble. Together they tied it around the postbox, securing it firmly around the base. All three of them, then, grabbed onto the rope and hauled.

“Heave-ho!” shouted the Mymble, clearly enjoying herself, despite her coat and hair being soaked through. The pulled, and the postbox was finally loosened from the mud. With grinds and groans, it made its way back up to the top of the bank.

“Well done, sweeties!” said the Mymble, clapping her paws together, her orange ponytail stuck to her head from the rain.

“Give me cover, if you please,” said Snufkin, gesturing at the umbrella hanging from her elbow.

“Oh, yes, of course!” said the Mymble cheerfully, nonplussed by forgetting about her umbrella. She held it over him as he snaked an arm into the post-box. Scraping his nails against the wood, he reached the bottom and felt something – a stack of papers. He moved his thumb to count the edges – one, two, three, four. More than the three letters that Snufkin himself had left last time!

He tried to squash down the bounce of giddy hope in his chest, pulling them out. The bottom three was his own – addressed to Moomintroll. Despite himself, he checked the back. Unopened.

Paws shaking, he took the extra letter.

 _Dear Guest,_ read the front matter.

He recognised the handwriting right away. He didn’t want to, but he did.

He tore open the seal and opened it.

_Dear guest, whoever you may be!_

_Thank you for coming to Moominhouse._

_Unfortunately, after the earthquake, the house has been in very bad shape! And being just a little Moominmamma getting on in years, I’m afraid it’s much too difficult for me to repair._

_But perhaps it’s been a long-time coming. All things must end, and all things must change, after all._

_As such, the little creature Toft and I have decided to leave. We are looking for a place to build a new home. We are not yet sure where that will be, though! We are hoping somewhere to grow rose bushes in summer and pumpkins in autumn._

_We will write with our new address when we find it. I’m sure we’d be happy to have you._

_\- Moominmamma_

Snufkin read it over again, the familiar looping handwriting so strange after so long.

“There’s a post-script, dear,” said the Mymble gently, crouching to read over his shoulder. He turned the paper over.

_P.S. Moomintroll, if you come back, please wait for our address and come find us. We will send an extra copy for you._

_I would love you to come home._

Snufkin turned the paper over, reading it again from the start to the end.

It was no answer at all.

****

They spent the rest of the day setting up in the remains of Moominhouse. The Mymble found a large tarp in one of the cupboards. At first, she just wanted to toss it over the roof.

“That won’t help at all,” huffed Snufkin. “The rain will blow in.”

“Oh, so it will!” said the Mymble with a laugh. “I have no head for these sort of things, sweetie. That’s very much something your father’s good at.”

“Snufkin has a father?”

The two of them jumped – they had both quite forgotten little Tuffe was there. They were so quiet, and Snufkin had so much else to think about. The little woody had gotten close enough to cling tentatively to the hem of Snufkin’s coat.

“Most creatures do,” he said stiffly, gently shaking them off.

“Even me?”

Snufkin thought about this.

“Perhaps not woodies,” he admitted. “You sprout like cabbages, I believe.”

“Oh,” said Tuffe, and looked so disappointed Snufkin panicked.

“Not that anyone _needs_ a father,” he said desperately. “I barely have one, really.”

The Mymble frowned. Snufkin scowled at her.

“It’s no use looking like that,” he said. “It’s true, isn’t it? Now let’s get the tarp set up. We should set up something like a tent on the ground floor – we can try to save the living room, at least.”

Working through the rain, and with some clever engineering work by Snufkin (as well as some surprising ingenuity and hard work from little Tuffe), they managed to set up the tarp on the ground floor. They turned the living room into a sort of half-tent, the rain blocked out by tarp on one side and walls on the other. Tuffe found a broom and started sweeping up the pieces of the chandelier. The Mymble scooped up bits of debris and tossed them out into the snow, and Snufkin mopped up the floor. The floor was still wet, but they found dry bedsheets bundled into a closet, and spread them out in layers. Once the sofa had been put in place and the dining table set up, it started to feel more like Moominhouse.

“Moominmamma could have done this,” grumbled the Mymble. “Just a little Moominmamma indeed! She’s younger than me, and I’m healthy as a horse!”

There was no setting a fire in the tent-room, and it was raining too heavily to build a campfire outside. The Mymble wandered down to the basement, fetching Moominmamma’s preserves for supper. The three of them sat listening to the rain, eating from a large tub of plum jam with a spoon each.

“The kitchen’s probably ruined,” said Snufkin, after a long silence.

“Oh well,” said the Mymble. “Perhaps Moominmamma left her teapot behind. I always fancied that teapot.

Snufkin grunted. Moominmamma wouldn’t mind anything they took, really. But there wasn’t anything Snufkin was interested in. Really, he thought, he should pack up and go. He could walk back down to the Great Grey Beach and stretch out there, waiting for the waves to take him wherever they pleased.

He glanced through the narrow gap of the tent, where they had managed to set the post-box back up into the ground. The ruined bridge looked past it. He could wait, perhaps, for a few days. For a note, for a return, for anything that may put the pieces back together.

He felt something tug on his coat. Little Tuffe was trying to cuddle aginst his leg for a nap. Snufkin stood.

“I’ll fetch you a pillow if you’re tired,” he told the little woody. “The family always had spare pillows.”

Outside, the Groke was beginning to sing.

****

Tuffe had always tried to be a good child. It didn’t come easily. They were quiet, but they were difficult. They weren’t fun and easy to love like Rulfe, but they washed behind their ears carefully, and always combed out the tuft of their tail, even when their brothers and sisters forgot. They did what Miss Emma said, even if what she said didn’t make much sense.

They used to say they never got angry, but that wasn’t true any more, was it? They had gotten angry quite a few times, lately. They had kicked and broken rules and snapped at people, fighting from the middle of the ocean to Moominvalley.

Perhaps, Tuffe thought miserably, that was where I went wrong. That was why Snufkin – if this was Snufkin – seemed so cold. If they had been a patient, good child, and waited longer, Snufkin would have come back as they remembered him. He would have been warm and gentle.

“It’s not too wet,” said Snufkin, dropping a small pillow in front of them. It had an M embroidered on the front and smelled faintly of lilacs. Tuffe took no move to take it and instead looked at Snufkin’s face. There was a great bruise on one side, angry and purple. Not the sort of bruise that could come about by accident.

That was not the frightening thing, though. It was how cold he was. His eyes were blank and pale, and his bare feet seemed to turn the grass white beneath him. Even bundled in the big jacket and jumper, he seemed to be shivering, folding into himself.

It was just as Tuffe thought when they left the theatre - something was wrong. Snufkin wouldn’t forget to write unless something was wrong.

They looked over at the large mymble he was travelling with. She had Snufkin’s red hair, and a warm smiling face, but there was something about her Tuffe couldn’t figure out.

“Are we waiting for the Moomins to write?” asked Tuffe. It seemed that the Moomins mattered a great deal to everyone else.

Snufkin grunted.

“Whether we wait or not makes no difference,” he said. “Letters come or they don’t.”

“That’s no answer at all,” said Tuffe, bristling. Snufkin looked away uncomfortably and took a pipe from his pocket.

“Some tobacco, I think,” he said.

“You’ll get soaked, sweetie,” said the Mymble. Snufkin shrugged. The Mymble looked at him a long moment and then sighed, passing him a velvet pouch from her pocket. He nodded and went outside, ducking through the tent flaps. Tuffe stood, staring out through the thin gap in the tarp.

It looked as though the Mymble was going to talk to them if they stayed any longer, so Tuffe scurried out after Snufkin.

He was walking quickly, long strides with his paws shoved in his pocket and his pipe clenched between his teeth. The rain was coming down hard, soaking his hair. He didn’t have his hat. Why didn’t he have his hat?

Snufkin walked and walked, heedless of Tuffe scrambling to keep up. It was hard to even see him through the rain. They slipped in the mud and fell, and when they got to their feet, he was gone.

“’Nufkin!” called Tuffe, voice thin and lost to the rain.

****

At first, Snufkin thought about going to the beach. He could hear the Groke’s song in his ears, louder than it had ever been, and he knew she would be walking through the grey waves. She was looking for him. She wouldn’t look _at_ him, but she was looking _for_ him. He couldn’t explain how he knew, or how it made sense, but he knew it as certain as he knew his heart was pounding under his ribs.

He would smoke on the beach and see if the Groke would finally step onto the shore. If her bright eyes would finally fall directly on him.

Then he remembered the cave, by the beach. The one they had sheltered in when the Comet had blazed overhead and scorched the tips of the trees black. Where he and Moomintroll had come to swim at night, seeking relief from the summer heat.

Perhaps the earthquake had brought the cave down too. Perhaps the tsunami had swept it away. Snufkin couldn’t bring himself to find out.

He turned and walked towards the river. He couldn’t see well through the rain, but it was alright. He knew the lay of the valley well. Even with the world shaken and reshaped, he was sure he would find his way around it just as he always had. He followed the path down the hill, towards where the bridge once stood. There was where he usually pitched his tent, although nobody would be able to tell, now. And there was no tent to pitch, he supposed. He could look in Moominhouse for a spare – no doubt there would be one – but the thought didn’t excite him.

Clicking his tongue, Snufkin filled his pipe and stepped onto what little was left of the bridge. The river was so swollen it lapped at his bare toes. It didn’t feel as cold as it ought to.

He lit his pipe, cupping his paws around the flame to protect it against the worst of the rain. The Mymble’s tobacco wasn’t very good tobacco, but it would do. One couldn’t be fussy, sometimes.

He listened to the moans of the Groke’s song over the rain. Was it really just noise, he wondered? Perhaps it was like the foreign songs on the radio – there were words and meaning it, but no creature for miles could make heads or tails of it. Listening, Snufkin would swear he heard his name, but he lost it as soon as that.

“She should go home, then,” muttered Snufkin fiercely to himself. “And sing to other grokes. I can’t do anything, can I?”

His pipe went out almost as soon as he lit it. The rain was too awful.

“Snufkin!”

It was certainly his name that time. Shouted with excitement and joy. There were paws rushing towards him. Snufkin saw a flash of white fur through the mist. For a moment he was certain it was spring, he was waiting on the bridge and watching the swallows come home to roost, his spring tune bright and trembling between his ribs.

Then the little creature stepped forward, and it was only the white of Tuffe’s hair and their little nose. They shivered, holding their tail tight to their body.

“Snufkin,” they said again, desperate, not joyful.

“You’ll catch cold,” said Snufkin sternly. Tuffe didn’t reply to that, just stared up at Snufkin with their huge eyes, tail twisted in their tiny paws. They were so small.

They came closer, grabbing at the hem of Snufkin’s coat again, leaning their forehead against his knee. Snufkin didn’t know what to do – he looked about, as though expecting to see someone coming towards him to help him. Tuffe was upset – beyond words, it seemed, and completely beyond Snufkin’s comprehension.

“Now, let’s not have this,” he said, leaning down to try and dislodge Tuffe’s paws from his leg. “We will spend the night in Moominhouse and then get you home to the theatre, nice and safe and with plenty of stories to tell your brothers and sisters.”

“I want to stay with you,” said Tuffe with sudden fierceness, clinging tighter.

“I don’t recall inviting you,” snapped Snufkin and pulled Tuffe away. He dropped his pipe, and it clattered against the wood and fell into the river, swept away in an instant.

“Oh, now I’ve lost my pipe, you silly wood-louse!” he snarled. Tuffe stared up at him, wet hair clinging to their face, shivering all over.

“I want to stay with you,” repeated Tuffe, as though they didn’t know what else to say. Snufkin huffed and started to walk away. Sure enough, Tuffe followed. He felt Tuffe’s paw snag the hem of his coat again. Snufkin sighed and stopped. Tuffe bumped into the back of his leg.

“You’re best off in the theatre, dear,” he said, looking down on the little Woody clinging to him. “You’ll be much happier there.”

Tuffe shook their head.

“If not the theatre, then elsewhere,” said Snufkin, feeling desperate now. “Go back to whoever gave you that uniform, or whoever helped you through the woods. There are many who would take in a dear little beast like you.”

Tuffe said something, so softly that Snufkin couldn’t make it out.

“What’s that? Don’t mumble,” he said.

“You stopped writing.”

Snufkin’s heart stopped.

“You wouldn’t forget, not unless something was very wrong,” said Tuffe, and looked up at him. “Someone needed to do something. You need me, I’m sure.”

“That isn’t for you to decide!” he barked, ripping his coat out of Tuffe’s grasp. “I don’t need anything, least of all such ridiculous assumptions.”

“You wouldn’t have forgotten!” said Tuffe, following him, even when Snufkin began walking too quickly for the poor little Woody to keep up. Even as Tuffe slipped and fell in the mud.

“Something must be wrong!” they said, shouting now. Snufkin didn’t know the little Woody could be so loud. He was sure they hadn’t been, that summer long ago.

“Snufkin!” they called, gasping for breath, struggling to keep up, covered in mud and soaked from head to toe. The Groke’s song was rattling against his skull, just one long wail now, barely even a tune.

“You shouldn’t admire me so much,” he said suddenly, turning on his heel to face them. “Nothing good comes of admiring someone. One only ends up disappointed.”

“I don’t mind,” said Tuffe.

“You should,” said Snufkin. “It’s dreadful to be disappointed. It’s the worst feeling in the world.”

“I know that,” they replied quietly. “I’ve felt it.”

Snufkin snorted. He doubted such a bright little creature could know it. He tried to keep walking on, but little Tuffe hung tighter onto his coat, tangling his legs.

“You hardly know me, little beast,” said Snufkin, exasperated.

“But I’d like to!” they said, so loudly Snufkin jumped. “Doesn’t that count?”

“No, it doesn’t!” he said. “One can’t decide these things alone!”

“But –“

“Oh, you little grokeling! Don’t you understand? I didn’t write because I forgot you entirely!” he shouted, pushing Tuffe away. They stumbled and fell back onto their elbows, staring at Snufkin with wide eyes. “I forgot you just like that. Because that’s how I am.”

“But –“

The little Woody’s voice wobbled, and Snufkin felt himself hesitate for a moment, but then he steeled himself. Nothing good would come of being kind right now.

“No,” said Snufkin firmly. “There was nothing amiss. I forgot you. That’s it.”

He stormed off, leaving Tuffe alone in the cold.

****

The Mymble had found a lantern when Snufkin returned. She had stacked up some of Moominpappa’s books and set it on top, filling the tent-room with warm orange light. She had settled onto a pile of pillows next to it, one of her paperbacks open in her lap. It didn’t look as though she was reading it. She was looking straight at Snufkin as he came back in.

“I said you’d get soaked, didn’t I?” she said, watching him drip onto the only recently-dried floor.

Snufkin grunted.

“Well, nevermind, nevermind,” said the Mymble, standing and fetching a towel, rubbing it over Snufkin’s hair. “Does us all good to get caught in the rain now and then, that’s what I say.”

He swatted her paws away. He didn’t need the help.

“Where’s the little beast gone?” she asked, taking her paws away.

Snufkin sat down, paw going to his empty pocket for his pipe. It didn’t much matter, did it? One couldn’t be pleasant all the time. It was much too difficult. One especially couldn’t be pleasant to creatures who were asking too much.

It was for Tuffe’s own good, he thought to himself. Nothing good would come from the little beast clinging to him.

“I set things right, that’s all,” said Snufkin.

Before he could protest, the Mymble put her arm around him and pulled him close. He tried to resist, but he was soaked through and shivering, and the Mymble radiated warmth.

“You’re freezing, sweetie!” she said, tucking the towel around him. “You’ll turn into a block of ice like this.”

“I need a new pipe,” muttered Snufkin.

The Mymble said nothing, merely looked down at him. Snufkin buried his gaze in her coat.

“I could make one, but then I’d need a carving knife,” he said, and then shook his head, cheek brushing against the fur of the Mymble’s collar. “Having one thing just necessitates another. Simpler to not have anything at all.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said gently. “Not even the littlest forest creep can get by with nothing at all. Even that little Woody has their cradle.”

She tilted her chin to where Tuffe had left the little cradle, on the edge of the tarp.

“It’s their ship,” said Snufkin. “So they say. But what a creature, to drag it all the way here from the middle of the sea.”

Despite himself, he admired the little beast for that. To be so little and come so far. But for what? A silly idea in their head, a few half-formed memories, that was all. If the Tuffe didn’t know disappointment before, they would now. What a bitter lesson to learn.

“They seem quite attached to you,” said the Mymble mildly.

“Oh, for now,” he said. “Once they’ve gotten what they need out of the admiration, they’ll move on soon enough. You know that.”

She was silent for a moment. The rain lashed down against the tarp overhead, the Groke’s song wailing over the rumbling wind. The lantern cast flickering shadows against the painted walls, the green tarp. Despite the noise outside, it felt as though the little pocket of the room was the only thing in the world.

“Do I know that?” she said, quieter than he’d heard her say anything.

“Your children left, didn’t they?” he snapped.

“Oh yes,” she said, unperturbed by his tone, resting her fingers in his hair. “They choose to leave, and it’s a wonderful choice to be able to make.”

“I hardly got a choice.”

“Now, now! Let’s not feel sorry for ourselves,” she said with a laugh. “Perhaps you didn’t the first time, but you most certainly did after that.”

Snufkin had nothing to say to that. The Mymble sighed and shifted her arm, cuddling him closer. He felt too tired and cold to resist. He couldn’t imagine himself ever being a person who was comfortable like this, but perhaps he could pretend to be.

“Doesn’t it upset you? The leaving?” he asked after a long silence, the lantern beginning to dim. It would need more oil, before long.

“Of course, one feels sad when people go away,” she said, shrugging. “But go they must!”

He huffed. He knew that. That wasn’t anything new or useful.

“They can come back, of course,” she said carefully. “If they choose to. People can always choose each other. Just because I’m their mother doesn’t mean they don’t get a choice.”

“Do mothers have to choose their children, too?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, I suppose. But for me, there’s no question,” she said and squeezed him. “It’s just whether they choose me back.”

“What’s the point if they can just leave,” he said, throat tight.

“Well,” said the Mymble thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s the frightening thing. People don’t just have to choose each other once. They must keep doing so - over and over.”

“It sounds terribly unlikely," he said softly. "Surely one day, they won’t choose you back.”

“Oh yes, that can always happen,” said the Mymble, laughing. “But, goodness, how dull things would be if we never even tried!”

Snufkin thought about this, looking down at his small paws, bunched in his lap.

He had made a terrible mistake. The most recent of many, perhaps, but at least this one he may still be able to fix.

Pulling his face from the Mymble’s coat, he stood and took the lantern in his paw. There wasn’t much oil, but it was bright enough to brave one trip, surely.

As he lifted it, the light swung, and Snufkin noticed something. The little cradle was gone. There was a hole in the tarp, where perhaps a little creature had dragged it away, unseen. There was a spike of panic in his stomach, and something must have shown on his face because the Mymble frowned and asked him:

“Is everything alright, sweetie?”

“Yes,” he lied, not wanting a fuss. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Before she could protest, he swept out of the tent, back into the rain.

****

It had all been a dreadful waste, Tuffe realised. They should have never left the theatre. It had all been wrong, the second they pushed through the curtains and into the waves beyond.

Snufkin didn’t exist. Not as Tuffe remembered him. It had all just been stories.

Tuffe had returned to the tent, tentative and soaked, wondering if something was wrong, and then they had lifted the tarp and peeked in. Snufkin and the Mymble – his mother – was sitting in the small circle of light under the lantern, speaking so quietly Tuffe couldn’t hear. Because, unlike Tuffe, Snufkin had a mother and a father, and a life beyond the tiny world of the theatre.

So Tuffe would go back. They would do what Miss Emma said, quietly and with obedience, and they would sleep in the kitchen drawer and play babies and trees and move set pieces, tilting the spotlight so it shone on the people who were important enough for it. Wanting anything else had been silly.

Shivering in the rain, Tuffe dragged the cradle behind them, heading towards the sea.

They didn’t even notice the rain was turning to ice.

****

“Tuffe?” called Snufkin, struggling to maintain the lantern in the rain. The wind was picking up, and it was cold and bitter as any mid-winter night. It was not a night to be wandering alone.

But they had taken their ship. So that only meant one thing.

“They intend to set sail,” he muttered, shaking his head. In such weather would be foolish for any sailor. Turning away from the bridge, from Moominhouse, Snufkin made his way down to the seafront. There was the boathouse, long empty and gathering dust, the dock, the long stretch of the sand. Somewhere amid the mist and rain was the cave, but Snufkin wasn’t thinking of that. He was only thinking of little Tuffe, lost somewhere in the bitter cold.

“Tuffe!” he shouted, teeth chattering. “Come now, little beast!”

There on the waves he saw her – dark and drifting closer to the shore than he’d ever seen her, the sea turned to ice beneath her dress. There was something in her hands. There was a tiny shipwreck in the sand.

“No,” he said desperately and ran. She was looking at the bundle in her hands, eyes wide and blank, because she didn’t know, of course, she didn’t know what she was or what she could do. She had probably wanted to help.

The lantern swinging in his paw, Snufkin charged barefoot into the cold sea, wading out towards the Groke. She didn’t look from the tiny creature in her hands.

“Put them down!” he called out, holding the lantern up to keep the flame lit. The water was frigid, coming up to his chest. He waded out further, to where it was beginning to turn white on the surface.

The Groke, finally, looked at him.

And he knew right away, the moment she looked at him, that she had been looking for someone else. He knew because he was looking for the same person, whether he wanted to or not.

The Groke’s hands came apart and Tuffe fell. Snufkin charged forward, scooping them up in one arm. The little Woody was stiff and cold, eyes closed and mouth hanging open. Their tail hung limply over Snufkin’s elbow. Snufkin stepped back, holding Tuffe tight to his chest. He couldn’t tell, through the cold and the rain and desperate panic pounding through his body, whether they were breathing.

The Groke came forward, reaching out. For something that Snufkin couldn’t give her.

“He’s not here,” said Snufkin.

The Groke moaned. She didn’t understand, and Snufkin didn’t know how to make her understand. He held Tuffe tight, felt the press of the zinnia flower in his breast pocket between them. The lantern was waning, just a circle of yellow light holding Tuffe and Snufkin within it, and the Groke’s cold hand reaching for them both.

“I can’t do anything for you,” he said, still walking backwards, almost slipping in the wet sand, almost losing his grip on Tuffe. “I’m sorry. You have to go. They’re too cold already.”

He stumbled, the water tightening around him. The Groke groaned again, as though in pain. In the distance, someone was shouting. Tuffe’s paws were moving against his chest, or perhaps Snufkin was just gripping too tightly.

“I’m not him, I can’t do anything,” he pleaded. “Just go.”

The lantern flickered, the circle of light growing smaller and smaller. All Snufkin could see was the shadow of the Groke’s hand, shivering and desperate. Snufkin drew the lantern closer, trying to bathe Tuffe in the firelight, trying to give whatever little warmth he had left.

The Groke’s hand stopped, just short of touching him. He could see the black of her fingernails. If he could give her anything he would.

“Snufkin!” called a voice through the rain.

The wind picked up, and a wave crashed over them. Snufkin stumbled back. The light went out. And a pair of arms folded around him.


	10. Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looped [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xnv65fHoLTQ&ab_channel=SlyDiLustrous) while writing this chapter, as obvious a choice as it is.

In the woods, a brown bear woke to spring light. She stretched and ambled outside, reflecting that one day of hibernation was, at the very least, better than none. At the mouth of the cave, was a little pile of berries, gathered the night before by a silk-monkey and her daughter.

Along a pier, an old man in a paper crown sat with his legs dangling above the water, happily planning his spring birthday. Taking a bite out of his crepe, he looked out of the waves and then squinted. For a second, he thought he saw a turtle.

In the city, a sweetshop owner, trembling from head to toe, told a police officer that he knew nothing about a runaway koi. Upstairs, in the bathtub, the runaway koi muffled her laugh behind a sponge.

In a ruined hotel room, a jazz band woke from a night of merrymaking with sore heads. Soon they would realise, with much arguing but just as much laughter, that a little thingum had stolen all their instruments.

Beneath a lighthouse, a father sat with his firstborn child in her lap and watched his wife walk around the garden, talking to the tulips. Their family would get bigger soon enough. And he couldn’t wait.

In the sea, a catfish swam with her family, following the shadow of a floating theatre.

And in the theatre, a colony of woodies prepared for their next play. They were as merry and silly as ever but every one of them wondered, at least a little bit, where the smallest of them had gone.

On a grey island, a father stood alone, thinking about unfathomable depths.

In the wild countries, a mother walked with another child’s paw in her own, looking for somewhere new to call home.

And even further away still, a son stood at the prow of his ship under a grey rain, wondering where the waves would take him today.

But in Moominvalley, the sun was beginning to shine.

And there, under a house that was no longer a house, a tent that wasn’t quite a tent, a small family was beginning to stir.

Spring had come at last.

****

Tuffe woke in soft fur to bird song. There was a pair of arms closed firmly around them, circling them in warmth. They shuffled in the dark for a moment, confused and tired, until pushing the fur away.

The arms were Snufkin’s. He was lying behind them, eyes closed, breathing gently into Tuffe’s hair. Behind him was the Mymble, her arm looped around him, her fur coat draped over all three of them. There was the remains of a fire in the stove – just a few embers clinging to pieces of black wood.

Tuffe stayed there for a moment. They were dressed in a little woollen jumper, rather than their work uniform.

They remembered the waves, the water so much colder than it had ever been. A song, low and so sad it made Tuffe want to cry. The waves had tipped them overboard, and a pair of hands had come towards them, trying to help, trying to pull them out of the water, but they were so cold it hurt.

Snufkin’s voice. A spotlight in the distance.

Tuffe blinked, unable to make sense of it. They glanced back at Snufkin, still asleep, his hair hanging limply over his cheek.

They looked down at their paw. They were holding something, even though Tuffe was certain they hadn’t grabbed onto anything when they’d fallen out of the cradle. Tuffe opened their fingers carefully.

A white zinnia. It was a little squashed, and some of the petals had fallen out, but Tuffe was certain that was what it was. They wondered where it had come from.

They sat up, pushing the Mymble’s coat off. It fell back with a hard _thump_ , bringing up a cloud of dust. Snufkin clung tighter as Tuffe tried to get up, and they had to squirm to get themselves loose.

Stepping away, they ducked under the tarp. It was still dripping from last night’s rain, but the sky was a clear, bright blue overhead. All the snow had was gone – melted away by the rain. The trees, beginning to grow green again, dripped overhead. Tuffe looked out over the river, running more gently now, the sun glimmering off the surface. A family of swallows trilled above, looping through the air.

The cradle was gone, but that was okay. Tuffe wasn’t sure they needed it anymore.

Still, there was something niggling at them. Something that still felt unfinished.

“Tuffe?” said a frantic voice back in the tent-house. Tuffe turned to see Snufkin crawl out of the tent, eyes very wide. Upon seeing Tuffe, his shoulders eased, and he came up to sit next to them, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“I’m glad to see you’re well,” he said, fiddling with his fingers. He probably wished he had his pipe. Snufkin liked to smoke in the morning. Tuffe remembered that.

It was strange – they remembered that right, but so many other things had been wrong.

“My clothes,” said Tuffe.

“They were soaked through,” said Snufkin, shaking his head. “We had to throw them out.”

Tuffe’s tail lashed.

“Your letters…” they said.

They had been in the apron pocket. Snufkin shook his head.

“Surely you’re not so upset to lose them?” he said. “I let you down rather horribly. You’d be rather right in just wanting to forget all about it.”

“I liked the letters a lot,” said Tuffe sadly. “Even if it would feel different now.”

Snufkin paused, looking as though he wanted to say something, but then he shook his head.

“I’m sorry, dear,” he said, instead of whether he was going to say. “I shouldn’t have been so cruel to you.”

He leaned back on his hands, breathing out a deep sigh, and popped a length of grass into his mouth, chewing on the end.

“Not many creatures can survive being held by a Groke,” said Snufkin, looking at them carefully. “I suppose you’re the resilient type though, aren’t you?”

“A Groke?” repeated Tuffe, eyes wide. They didn’t remember a Groke. And surely, they would – they were such fearsome creatures, after all. So great and cold and lonely. Yet she had been trying to help, Tuffe was sure.

Snufkin nodded.

“You were cold all the way through,” he said. “And so was I, I thought.”

“How did we get back?”

“Mother,” said Snufkin, gesturing back towards the tent-house. Tuffe could hear the Mymble’s gentle snores through the tent. “She came running and pulled us out of the sea.”

“Just like that?” asked Tuffe.

“Just like that,” said Snufkin, nodding. “Amazing what one can do, when one’s child is in danger, I suppose.”

Tuffe looked at the little zinnia in their paw and then turned, thrusting it at Snufkin.

“Hm?” he said. “Oh, You must have pulled it out of my pocket. Remarkable it remained in one piece.”

“It’s yours then,” said Tuffe.

Snufkin looked at it, and then glanced at Tuffe’s face with a most peculiar expression.

“You keep it, little beast,” he said. “Perhaps it will serve as a good luck charm.”

Tuffe’s stomach did an unpleasant leap.

“Are you going to make me leave again?” they asked. Snufkin stared, wide-eyed.

“No, no, of course not, I –“ he said, and then pressed his fist to his forehead, sighing. “You must understand. I didn’t expect to see you.”

“You’d forgotten about me,” they said, amazed how much it still hurt. Snufkin looked away, uncomfortable.

“I’m afraid so,” he said honestly. “I’ve been very foolish lately. I’d forgotten about everyone, you see. I only remembered one person.”

“Really?” said Tuffe, amazed. They didn’t think Snufkin could make such a mistake.

“Really,” he said. “I see now what a terrible mistake that is. A single person can’t be anyone’s whole world. It isn’t fair on anyone.”

Tuffe thought about this, looking Snufkin up and down. He was shorter than Tuffe remembered. His hair was messy, and there was still a great ugly bruise on one side of his face. He looked tired, and his voice was rough, turned hoarse with tobacco. He had no green hat, no smile, none of the gentle things Tuffe had remembered or invented about him.

They tried to remember the Snufkin they’d met as a little one, barely sprouted from the ground. They remembered the rowboat, bobbing over the waves, the lights of the theatre coming up as the curtain was raised. Playing with their brothers and sisters on the recently tarred roof, turning filthy. Having their hair combed into place. Eating beans with black pepper, in the warmth of a small house.

Yet they couldn’t remember their own memory of Snufkin. How strange.

“You don’t have to leave,” said Snufkin, “but you don’t have to stay, either. If you’d rather go home to the theatre, we can take you the rest of the way. Although I doubt you need the help. You made it this far alone.”

“I didn’t, really,” said Tuffe fairly. “I had a lot of help.”

“One tends to, while travelling alone,” said Snufkin, looking as though he was remembering something himself. “It’s easy to forget, but people can be very kind.”

Tuffe wanted to say more – about the people they had met who remembered Snufkin, and would probably want to see him again - when there was a banging from behind them

“Good morning sweeties!” bellowed the Mymble, charging out of the tent. “I can’t find as much as a speck of coffee about - Moominmamma must have taken the lot! We’ll have to go fetch some ourselves.”

“I suppose we’ll need something for breakfast too,” said Snufkin. “Jam isn’t much of a meal.”

“Oh yes, if you could fish us up a few kippers or snatch some eggs, that would be splendid,” said the Mymble, buttoning up her coat. Snufkin sighed in a long-suffering sort of way, as though he hadn’t already basically offered to help, and got to his feet.

“Tuffe, are you coming? I can teach you to fish, ” said Snufkin.

“No, thank you,” they said. “I have a lot to think about.”

Snufkin didn’t quite manage to hide his wince.

“Very well,” he said briskly. “We shall set some aside, just in case you’re hungry later.”

****

Tuffe walked back towards the sea. As they walked, the thought very carefully about the way Snufkin had winced.

They could hurt Snufkin, they realised. That shouldn’t be possible, but it was. If they left, it would hurt him a great deal. They couldn’t say they understood why, or how, when Snufkin had so passionately wanted them to leave before.

It was a heavy thought to bear, but not altogether unpleasant.

It would serve him right, in some ways, Tuffe thought. To forget so completely about everyone, to promise letters and then stop writing, so suddenly, for no reason at all. To make people worry, to make people feel unloved, to be so thoughtless. Someone who did all that, in many ways, would deserve a taste of his own medicine.

The sea seemed smaller in the morning light. The night before it had been frothing and grey, as though it was threatening to swallow up the whole world. Today, it was calm and green, washing pleasantly along the shore.

Tuffe had finished what they set out to do. They had travelled the sea and the land and found Snufkin, just as they intended.

In the theatre, the curtain would have already fallen. They survived the biting cold of the Groke and woke on a spring morning, and that would be enough for a happy ending. The lights would come on and the audience would depart, chattering pleasantly about the lead actor, about the staging, and then about what they would have for dinner, whether they would go visit their aunt tomorrow, and the whole story would be forgotten soon enough. The actors would change out of their costumes and take off their make-up, passing around glasses of champagne. The stage would be cleared, to do it all again the next night.

Outside the theatre, there was no curtain to fall, no last bow to be made. One had to simply keep going on, with one question to ever answer:

What now?

As Tuffe contemplated that question – the only question – they heard a song over the waves, a low voice singing.

Tuffe stood at the edge of the shore, the water rushing over their feet, and squinted out onto the horizon. There was nothing there – no boat approaching, no creature singing out in the distance. It was then Tuffe realised it wasn’t coming from the horizon line at all.

Following the noise, they turned on their heel. It was coming further north – from a cave at the end of the beach.

They hesitated, not sure if they should be frightened or not. They knew the stories about sailors lured to their deaths by a siren’s song, after all. In the end, though, Tuffe was an adventurer through and through now, and couldn’t very well turn away from a mysterious song.

****

“No post today,” said the Mymble, frying some of the fish Snufkin had caught over the campfire. “The post in Moominvalley always comes by ten in the morning sharp. It’s the only reliable thing about the Moominhouse.”

Snufkin sat watching the river, as it rushed over where their bridge had once stood.

“Although! There may be some tomorrow,” said the Mymble cheerfully. “One never knows.”

“I suppose there could be,” he said. He could wait and see, he supposed. He had the year before, in the empty house, with all the sheets still over all the furniture.

“Mother?” said Snufkin, tentatively. The Mymble froze for a second, the line of her shoulders drawn tight, but then she flipped the fish as though he had said nothing unusual at all.

“Yes, dear?”

Snufkin shook his head.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just thinking of what to do next, I suppose.”

“Anything you like,” she said. “Although right now, I’d appreciate it if it was fetching a few plates.”

Snufkin snorted and dug around in the picnic basket the Mymble had brought from the house-boat to the tent-house. He fished out three plates, mis-matched in size as well as pattern, and laid them out on the grass next to the campfire. The Mymble tossed a fried bit of fish on each, as well as a generous portion of mushrooms, turned black in the skillet.

“Is the little creature coming back for breakfast?”

“Tuffe,” said Snufkin. “And that’s up to them.”

“Naturally,” she said and handed a plate to him. “You forgot the forks, dear.”

He grunted, eating with his fingers. The Mymble rolled her eyes and grabbed a knife and fork for herself. Their plates were cleared and stacked back in the picnic basket, and Tuffe’s breakfast still lay out on the grass, now cold. Snufkin looked at with a pang but tried to accept it.

People had to be able to leave.

“Have we any stationery?” asked Snufkin, glancing again at the post-box.

“I’m certain I could find some,” said the Mymble. “Do you have letters to write so early in the year, dear?”

“Yes,” he said. “Quite a few.”

****

By the time lunch was ready, Snufkin’s writing paw was sore. Twenty-four letters were enough to write – never mind twenty-four for every year he had forgotten. And even after all of those, there would be one more. One that, if the previous years were any indication, would lay unopened and unread.

He didn’t have to write it, he thought. It would be long enough that nobody would blame him, for not writing it. In fact, most would think him silly to even bother.

He chewed on the end of his pencil.

How long was too long to want something, and not have it?

“Take a break, and have a sandwich dear,” said the Mymble, pottering towards him with a tray full of sandwiches and orange juice. Snufkin paused, setting down the stationary and the book he was leaning against.

“I think,” said the Mymble, through a mouthful of bread, “I’d like to go see your father soon.”

“Can you really just pop in on them after so long?” he asked, peeling his sandwich into pieces to eat it.

“Oh, I imagine it’ll be awkward,” she said. “But only for a moment. And then we’ll just be happy to see each other.”

“Hm,” said Snufkin, and hid his uncertainty with a gulp of juice.

“I’m sure they’d be even happier to see you,” she continued, wiping jam from her mouth with the back of her sleeve.

“Maybe,” said Snufkin, and honestly did try to believe it. He glanced across at the plate of sandwiches. “Set some aside for Tuffe, just in case.”

“Of course, dear.”

****

It was dark, finally, when all the letters were written. Snufkin wasn’t sure how good they were – he hadn’t the time to find little gifts, and his drawings only got worse with every attempt. Yet he tucked each one in an envelope and wrote the name of each Woody. He put them in a sack, tied the mouth tight, and left them on the veranda. Next time post was delivered to Moominvalley, those letters would go out.

There were more letters to write, of course. Many more people he’d forgotten. But Snufkin didn’t know the addresses for any of them. Perhaps he could write them anyway. Just in case one day he did.

The Mymble had managed to get Moominmamma’s oven working, through more chance than skill. He could hear her, humming and trotting about, preparing a pie, less for the actual desire of eating it and more for the sake of making it.

Tuffe’s breakfast and lunch still lay cold on the grass. There was a chill in the air, and Snufkin buttoned up his coat and shuffled closer to the lantern.

Was it worth writing letters, if they weren’t going to be read?

Perhaps, perhaps, he thought drowsily, resting his chin on his knees. Perhaps the writing was even more important than the reading. To call out and hope to be understood, perhaps that was enough.

Then again, maybe an unread letter was just an envelope. And an unheard song was nothing at all.

Snufkin rubbed his eyes.

No, he decided, sitting up and pulling the book and the stationary back into his lap. The lantern had a few hours oil in it yet.

He would write his letter. He may not be able to control if it was read, but he could control if it was written.

It had to be enough. It was all he could do.

****

Tuffe walked for a long time through the cave. It was completely black – the earthquake seemed to have made the entrance fall in. It was only just big enough for Tuffe to squeeze through, crouched onto their knees.

The mouth of the cave was completely black when they approached. It looked as though it had fallen in during the earthquake – it was only just big enough for Tuffe. Any larger creature would never be able to get in. The singing came from within, low and tuneless, the moan of the wind through the rocks.

“Hello?” called Tuffe, their tiny voice echoing down the tunnel. They continued to walk, walking and walking until their feet were sore. As they did, the ceiling rose, and eventually light began to trickle back in from outside. Soon, they emerged in a small grotto, tucked onto the seafront. There was only a strip of sand and rock to walk on. Just large enough for a family to huddle if they stayed close.

On the water, stood the Groke, her eyes gleaming brightly in the darkness.

Tuffe hesitated, watching their breath turn to clouds in front of them, even in the mild spring morning. She stared at them, no longer singing, but with her teeth parted as though about to say something.

A Groke was a terribly frightening thing, even when one had already survived her once. For a moment, Tuffe could barely move.

Then they took a step forward, and then another. The Groke remained where she was.

“Hello,” they said. She stared, and lifted a hand, gesturing towards them. Tuffe realised at once why she was there.

“Oh! I’m alright now,” they said, gesturing to themselves. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

The Groke took another step forward, but Tuffe held their ground, shaking their head.

“No,” they said and then, “I’m sorry.”

She stopped and groaned. She seemed to understand.

Tuffe looked into her eyes. Their fear had fallen away. She was terrible and dangerous, but only in the way of a harsh winter. Sometimes people hurt each other without meaning to, they realised, and there was nothing that could be done about it. Only not to do the same thing again.

She gestured at the sand between them. Tuffe took another cautious step forward. There was something buried there, the corner of something hard sticking up out of the sand, soaked through with seawater. Tuffe crouched and dug away the sand with their claws, revealing the glint of something gold.

Tuffe pulled it from the sand and turned it in their paws, eyes wide.

“Thank you,” they said, looking back up at the Groke. But she had already retreated, disappearing, as Grokes did, into the night before.

****

The letter was written. It was short and not terribly eloquent, but it was written.

_I love you terribly and think I always will, but one cannot wait on a broken bridge._

Well, that was the idea of it, anyway.

There was more he could write. And other people he could write to. But it was late and his fingers were sore, and there was pie waiting to be eaten.

He folded the letter before he had the chance to re-read and think better of it and sealed it into an envelope. Moomintroll’s name on the front, for all that it was necessary.

Whether it would be opened and read wasn’t up to him. He hoped it would, but there was a life to live either way.

He went down to the post-box and popped it in. As is always the case when one does something brave, it was a little underwhelming. He stood for a while and then turned as he heard footsteps approaching. Tuffe was walking up from the beach. When they saw Snufkin they went a little faster. To Snufkin’s surprise, he was happy to see them. He rushed over to greet the little Woody, not even minding when Tuffe crashed into his leg.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” he said, picking Tuffe up by the scruff of the neck and setting them on their feet. 

“I thought about it,” said Tuffe. Snufkin tilted his head and sat down cross-legged in front of them.

“Oh?” he said. Tuffe nodded, clutching something tight to their chest. Before Snufkin reacted, they thrust their paws out at him.

A gold and rosewood mouth-organ. A little battered, perhaps ruined by seawater, but at least whole.

“Where on earth did you find this, dear beast?” he asked genuinely astonished.

“The Groke,” they said. “She showed me.”

After a second, he took the mouth organ and turned it in his paws. Yes, he recognised the carvings, the way it fit into his palms.

“By the Booble,” said Snufkin, shaking his head. “What unlikely things can happen.”

He looked up at Tuffe, a coil of nervousness tightening in the pit of his stomach.

“Did you just come back to give this back?” he said.

They looked at each other a long while, and Snufkin wondered if Tuffe wasn’t even sure. If they had waited until seeing Snufkin again to make their decision.

“I want to stay,” said Tuffe, very quietly. “At least for now. Maybe not forever.”

“Well, that’s quite fair,” said Snufkin, smiling. “Nobody can promise each other that.”

“I, um. I have a lot of stories to tell you,” continued Tuffe, fidgeting with their jumper. “About Sniff and the Fillyjonk and a lot of other people I met.”

“I see,” he said, nodding seriously. “At the least, I can promise to listen.”

The little creature didn’t know him, thought Snufkin, not really. And he didn’t really know them, either. But all one needed to fix that was to be willing to learn. There was little more to it than that.

“We’ll be going to see my father soon,” he said. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“Will he like me?” asked Tuffe anxiously.

“Who knows. I barely know if they like _me_ ,” said Snufkin. “But it shall be interesting enough to find out.”

Tuffe gave him a wobbly smile, half-hidden behind their paw.

“I’d like to come along,” they said politely. “Thank you.”

The flap to the tent-house was thrown open up the hill, and the Mymble emerged, covered in flour and smiling.

“Dinner! Have it or don’t!” she called and headed back inside.

“Well,” said Snufkin, standing up. “There will be plenty if you’d like to join us.”

Tuffe nodded and held gently onto the hem of Snufkin’s coat. The two of them walked up to the hill towards the house.

In the morning, a family had breakfast out on the veranda, before walking to the sea. A swarm of little turtles lined up to kiss their mother goodbye, before returning to the vast ocean. On paths that had long gone untrodden, snowdrops began to bloom. And, for the first time in a long while, a new spring song rang out over Moominvalley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Thank you for reading this weird little story all the way to the end. I'm @clefairytea on Tumblr if you wanna talk.


End file.
